To 


Albert    B . Chandler ,    Esq., 


Whose   kind   letr,er   to  the   author,    when 


"Oakum  Pickings"    was  published  nearly 
twenty    years   ago,    is   still   preserved 


and  cherished. 


New  York,    June   28,189j 


MfvAJLU>*i 


MY  DEBUT  IN  JOURNALISM 


AND 


OTHER  ODD  HAPPENINGS. 


BV 

WALTER       F\       PHILLIPS. 


NEW  YORK : 
THE    INTERNATIONAL    TELEGRAM    CO. 


Xl 


<\ 


Copyrighted,  jSg2,  by   Walter  P.  Fhillips. 


•  «  • 


'    c 


•      I 


Evening  Post  Job  Printing  House,  N.  Y. 


TO   MY  GALLANT   COMRADES 
IN   THE    RANKS   OF 

glue  mixitcxl  ^xtss 

THIS  BOOK 
IS   AFFECTIONATELY   INSCRIBED. 


M126913 


ftf  1 1 G  ( 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

My  Debut  in  Journalism, 

•      5 

An  Agreeable  Saunterer, 

23 

Miss  Britton's  Romance, 

•    45 

An  Evening  Reverie, 

65 

Esther  Romaine, 

•     79 

An  Old  Man's  Exegesis, 

in 

Agnes  Leigh,       .... 

.  121 

Stage  Coaching,         .... 

167 

Old  George  Wentworth, 

.  185 

MY  DEBUT  IN  JOURNALISM. 


MY  DEBUT  IN   JOURNALISM. 

"  TF  you  will  come  over  and  see  Ferguson  right 
away,"  wrote  my  friend,  the  managing  editor 
of  The  Plantation  Harbinger,  "  I  think  you  can  ob- 
tain the  position  of  local  editor.  Charlie  Hurd 
has  lit  out." 

Ferguson  was  the  proprietor  of  The  Harbinger, 
and  I  was  an  ambitious  telegraph  operator  eager  to 
enter  the  journalistic  field,  so  I  went  in  pursuit  of 
him.  I  met  Hurd  on  my  way  over,  and  asked  him 
what  was  the  trouble,  and  where  he  was  going. 

"  On  the  Boston  Globe"  he  answered.  "Fer- 
guson does  not  pay  his  help." 

"Why,"  returned  I,  "his  managing  editor,  Mr. 
Pickett,  has  just  written  me  a  note  asking  me  to  go 
and  see  Ferguson  about  the  situation  you  have 
vacated.  He  said  nothing  about  bad  pay,  simply 
stating  that  you  had  '  lit  out.'  " 

"Pickett  is  in  the  ring,"  observed  Hurd,  sig- 
nificantly, and  he  hastened  in  the  direction  of  the 
Boston  depot. 


8  MY  DEBUT  IN  JOURNALISM. 

It  was  with  my  enthusiasm  considerably  abated 
that  I  entered  the  presence  of  Mr.  Ferguson.  I 
knew  him  slightly,  his  rotund  form  and  genial 
face,  in  connection  with  a  stub-tailed  horse  and 
Concord  wagon,  being  familiar  to  about  every  man, 
woman  and  child  in  town.  He  was  a  person  who 
never  wholly  lost  his  aplomb  under  the  most  dis- 
couraging circumstances,  as  I  afterward  learned, 
and  who,  under  ordinary  conditions,  was  a  perfect 
Chesterfield.  It  will  be  a  good  many  years  in  the 
future  before  I  shall  have  forgotten  the  cordial 
grasp  he  gave  my  hand,  and  the  benignant  smile 
which  played  upon  his  lips  as  he  said  : 

"Mr.  Pickett's  heart  is  set  upon  having  you 
come  on  our  paper  as  local  editor.  I  have  studied 
with  great  care  such  occasional  work  as  you  have 
done  for  us.  It  is  exceedingly  good.  I  am  a  man 
of  few  words,  Mr.  Phillips.  I  like  you.  I  want 
you  to  like  me.  I  do  business  on  the  square.  I 
will  pay  you  twenty  dollars  per  week,  and  you  get 
your  cash  every  Saturday. "  Afterward  I  learned 
that  Ferguson  never  read  a  line  in  his  paper  unless 
his  attention  was  called  to  something,  and  he  read 


MY  DEBUT  IN  JOURNALISM.  9 

it  then  under  protest.  I  learned  a  great  deal  during 
the  next  year,  but  of  that  hereafter. 

"Mr.  Hurd  said"— 

"One  moment,"  interrupted  Ferguson,  "see 
you  again  in  a  second,"  and  he  went  to  his  desk, 
and  making  a  note  for  thirty  days  sent  it  to  the 
bank.  Before  I  could  resume  my  story  about 
Hurd,  Ferguson  said  : 

"I  never  like  to  talk  about  a  man  behind  his 
back.  But  here  are  the  facts  in  a  nutshell :  Mr. 
Hurd  is  a  good  fellow,  sharp  writer  and  all  that, 
but  he  is  extravagant.  He  has  drawn  his  salary  in 
advance  ever  since  he  came  here.  Yesterday  he 
wanted  me  to  advance  him  a  hundred  dollars.  I 
declined,  and  he  is  gone,  thank  fortune  !  He  is  a 
good  paymaster  who  pays  when  the  work  is  done. 
I  do  that.  I  am  willing  to  pay  one  or  two  weeks' 
salary  in  advance,  but  I  can't  furnish  money  to 
everybody  who  comes  along,  in  quantities  to  suit — 
like  to  accommodate,  you  know,  but  it  isn't  busi- 
ness, and  I  am  not  in  a  position  to  do  it  without 
cramping  myself.  Another  thing,"  he  went  on 
glibly,   "  Hurd's  wife  is  afraid  of  thunder  and  light- 


10  MY  DEBUT  IN  JOURNALISM. 

ning,  and  every  time  a  shower  comes  along,  off 
he  goes  home — no  matter  if  it's  only  eight  o'clock. 
Now,  the  local  editor  of  a  morning  paper  can't  go 
home  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  and  do  justice 
to  the  city  department.  I  tolerated  this  because  I 
wished  the  man  well,  but  you  know  how  'tis  your- 
self. There  comes  a  straw  one  day  that  breaks 
the  camel's  back,  and  Hurd's  constant  hypotheca- 
tion of  his  salary  and  his  attempts  to  browbeat  me 
into  lending  him  large  sums  have  done  the  business 
for  him." 

After  a  great  number  of  compliments  on  my 
lively  way  of  writing,  and  no  end  of  assurances 
that  if  a  man  did  not  "impose  on  him  unreason- 
ably it  was  all  right,"  I  left  the  mighty  presence 
with  a  very  high  regard  for  Ferguson,  and  a  very 
seriously  changed  heart  toward  my  avaricious  pre- 
decessor. And  if  Hurd's  rapacity  in  seeking  to  do 
a  sort  of  free  banking  with  his  employer  hadn't  set- 
tled him  in  my  estimation,  his  habit  of  going 
home  "in  the  midst  of  a  murder,"  as  Ferguson 
said,  "if  a  thunderstorm  came  up,"  would  have 
done  the  business  for  him  of  itself.    I  had  engaged 


MY  DEBUT  IN  JOURNALISM.  11 

myself  for  one  year  at  twenty  dollars  per  week, 
and  began  work  the  next  day.  As  I  had  only 
worked  half  a  week  when  pay  day  came  I  thought 
it  wiser  to  let  the  amount  lie  until  the  next  Satur- 
day than  to  bother  Ferguson  about  half  a  week's 
pay,  and  I  did  so.  As  my  hours  were  from  seven 
p.m.  to  two  or  three  a.m.,  and  as  Ferguson  seldom, 
if  ever,  visited  the  editorial  rooms  at  night,  I  did 
not  see  him  from  one  week  to  the  other.  Occa- 
sionally I  visited  the  counting-room  to  find  it  in 
charge  of  a  supremely  saucy  boy,  who  sat  on  a  high 
stool  and  shrilly  whistled,  and  who  invariably 
answered  the  question,  "When  will  Ferguson  be 
in?"  with  a  grunt,  which  the  practiced  ear  recog- 
nized as  "Give  it  up.''  But  though  I  saw  him 
not,  Ferguson  sent  me  numerous  kind  messages 
during  the  week,  and  finally,  at  the  bottom  of  one 
of  his  pleasant  notes,  he  wrote:  "  Didn't  see  you 
Saturday  ;  money  waiting  for  you. "  On  receipt  of 
that  missive  so  great  was  my  confidence  in  his  in- 
tegrity I  would  have  lent  Ferguson  a  thousand 
dollars  had  he  asked  for  it  and  I  could  have  raised 
it.     When  Saturday  arrived  I  went  to  the  counting- 


12  MY  DEBUT  IN  JOURNALISM. 

room  and  ran  upstairs  with  a  light  step.  Ferguson 
was  not  in,  and  several  persons  with  anxious  faces 
were  in  waiting.  To  my  question  as  to  when  Mr. 
Ferguson  would  be  in,  the  shrill  whistler  grunted  as 
usual,  and  as  I  seemed  to  be  at  a  loss  what  to  say, 
he  volunteered  the  remark  : 

"  Don't  pay  off  till  two  o'clock." 

The  city  clock  struck  eleven  as  I  passed  down- 
stairs and  out  upon  the  busy  street.  I  felt  very 
sure  about  Ferguson,  but  I  had  my  doubts  about 
the  boy,  Brooks.  He  was  becoming  a  thorn  in 
my  side  with  his  stereotyped  "Give  it  up,"  and  his 
disturbing  remarks.  I  was  positive  he  misrepre- 
sented Mr.  Ferguson,  and  took  advantage  of  his 
absence  to  snub  and  render  uncomfortable  not 
only  employees  but  also  patrons  of  the  paper.  I 
determined  to  speak  to  Mr.  Ferguson  about  him 
and  have  him  admonished — annihilated,  if  possible. 

I  returned  to  the  office  at  five  minutes  past  two 
o'clock  to  find  the  little  counting-room  crowded 
with  compositors,  reporters,  pressmen,  editors, 
route-boys,  bootblacks,  and  a  great  many  others. 
As  I    peered   over  the  sea  of  shoulders  my  eyes 


MY  DEBUT  IN  JOURNALISM.  13 

caught  those  of  Ferguson,  and  he  shouted,  "  Make 
room  there  for  Mr.  Phillips."  As  I  approached 
the  desk  Ferguson  dipped  a  pen,  put  his  chubby 
finger  against  an  entry  in  a  large  book  where  he 
wished  me  to  sign,  and,  before  I  had  scarcely 
finished  my  name,  he  placed  thirty  dollars  before 
me.  I  stepped  aside  to  make  room  for  Dr.  Rose, 
our  foreman,  who  had  just  come  in,  but  I  did  not 
retire,  as  I  wished  to  consult  Ferguson  about  sev- 
eral matters  which  struck  me  as  being  of  vital  im- 
portance to  The  Harbinger  s  welfare.  As  I  stood 
waiting  I  observed  that  Dr.  Rose's  youthful  face 
wore  an  expression  much  graver  than  I  had  ever 
seen  there  before.  I  was  surprised  that  no  pen 
was  dipped  for  him  to  sign  with,  and  that  Ferguson 
requested  no  one  to  "  Make  room  for  Dr.  Rose." 
The  Doctor  was  admitted  behind  the  counter  after 
a  few  seconds,  and  Ferguson  whispered  with  him 
earnestly.  Then  a  ten-dollar  note  was  handed  to 
him,  and  he  walked  out  looking  very  severe.  I 
saw  it  all.  Dr.  Rose  had  been  drawing  his  salary 
in  advance,  and  Ferguson  would  only  be  imposed 
upon  within  reasonable  bounds.      He  had  given 


14  MY  DEBUT  IN  JOURNALISM. 

the  Doctor  ten  dollars,  which  was  generous  under 
the  circumstances.  My  heart  warmed  toward  him 
for  his  liberality.  Next  came  Henry  Ladd,  the 
telegraph  editor. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  Henry?"  inquired 
Ferguson. 

"  Let  me  have  twenty,"  said  Ladd;  "  rent  due." 

"  Sorry,  but  I  can't  do  it,  Henry,"  returned  Fer- 
guson, in  the  blandest  tones  imaginable.  "  Here," 
he  added,  "are  two  dollars  in  pennies.  Now  git !  " 
I  had  no  doubt  that  Ladd  had  overdrawn  his  salary 
by  several  hundred  dollars,  and  his  assurance  in 
coming  to  ask  for  money  at  all  surprised  and 
pained  me. 

The  next  Saturday  Mr.  Ferguson  paid  me  with 
less  alacrity,  and  I  noticed  that  he  addressed  me 
by  my  given  name.  A  week  later  he  said:  "Wally, 
old  boy,  here's  fifteen  dollars  for  you,  can't  make 
change  any  nearer.  Hand  you  the  other  five 
on  Monday,"  and  upon  my  third  appearance  he 
simply  handed  me  a  ten-dollar  note,  with  the  ob- 
servation, "  Here  you  go,  Phil;  hang  up  the  other 
ten  with  that  five  I  owe  you  on  last  week. " 


MY  DEBUT  IN  JOURNALISM.  15 

' '  But  what  kind  of  a  way  to  do  business  is  this  ? " 
I  asked. 

"Oh,  run  along,  sonny,"  said  Ferguson,  with  a 
smile;  "no  time  to  'yawp'  on  the  day  preceding 
the  peaceful  Sabbath.  Come  in  any  day  but  Satur- 
day, and  we  will  talk  matters  up." 

I  walked  out  considerably  worried  and  cast  down. 
"Come  in  any  day  but  Saturday,"  was  refreshing 
in  the  extreme.  As  if  I  hadn't  visited  his  office 
day  after  day  to  talk  about  the  feasibility  of  adding 
another  reporter  to  our  force,  and  been  met  by  that 
incorrigible  whistler,  whose  "  Give  it  up  "  had  be- 
come a  perfect  nightmare.  Mr.  Ferguson  was 
seldom  in,  though  I  found,  during  my  periods  of 
watching  and  waiting,  that  very  few  men  were  in 
greater  demand. 

On  making  my  fifth  appearance,  as  I  reached  for 
a  pen,  my  employer  said: 

"You  needn't  sign  that  book,  Phil." 

"Not   sign!"    I    ejaculated,    thoroughly    non- 
plused. 

"No;  money  about  all  gone.     Have  to  pay  the 
compositors,   or  they  won't   go    to  work   Sunday 


16  MY  DEBUT  IN  JOURNALISM. 

night — have  no  paper  Monday.  You  and  Ladd, 
and  Rose  and  Bowers  and  Bishop,  get  three  dollars 
apiece  to-day,  and  that  settles  your  hash.  Mem- 
bers of  the  intellectual  department  are  supposed  to 
work  for  fame,  not  money." 

He  handed  me  three  dollars,  and  inquired  if  I 
would  like  to  go  to  the  Theodore  Thomas  concert 
that  evening.  Replying  in  the  affirmative,  he  passed 
me  two  complimentary  tickets,  and  dashed  down- 
stairs. A  moment  later  he  was  gathering  up  the 
reins,  which  had  fallen  under  the  feet  of  the  stub- 
tailed  horse,  and  I  sat  watching  him  as  one  in  a 
trance. 

"Brooks  !  Brooks  !  "  called  Ferguson. 

Brooks  made  a  break  in  the  tune  he  had  been 
whistling  ever  since  I  had  known  him,  and  going 
to  the  window,  responded,  "Aye,  Aye." 

"  Charge  Phillips  with  six  dollars — three  cash, 
and  three  for  those  Thomas  concert  tickets,"  said 
Ferguson,  and  then  he  drove  away. 

To  say  that  I  was  enraged,  as  I  tore  up  the 
street,  but  feebly  expresses  the  intemperate  frame 
of  mind  in  which  I  found  myself  after  all  this.     I 


MY  DEBUT  IN  JOURNALISM.  17 

soon  met  Rose  and  Ladd,  and  began  my  tale  of 
woe.     They  stopped  me  at  once,  and  said: 

"So  he's  landed  you,  too,  eh?  Give  us  your 
hand." 

I  felt  that  congratulations  were  by  no  means  in 
order,  but  I  mechanically  put  forth  my  hand,  and 
both  shook  it  warmly.  They  knew  that  I  had 
"joined  the  band  of  hope." 

I  staid  on  The  Harbinger  as  "local,"  political 
writer,  managing  editor,  and  what  not  for  two  years, 
and  with  the  exception  of  such  payments  as  I  have 
mentioned,  my  cash  receipts  from  Ferguson's  trea- 
sury were  slim  indeed.  Why  I  remained  I  cannot 
explain.  Pickett,  who  once  visited  Ferguson  with 
the  determination  of  squeezing  fifty  dollars  out  of 
him,  was  assuaged  with  an  "  order  "  for  a  grind- 
stone ;  but,  in  the  face  of  asking  for  money  and 
receiving  a  stone,  Pickett  still  stuck  to  the  paper 
and  "salivated  the  Republican  Party,"  as  he  ex- 
pressed it,  months  and  months  after  his  labor  had 
ceased  to  bring  shekels.  Rose  and  Ladd,  the 
ancient  and  precise  ship-news  reporter,  Mr.  Tilley, 
and  many  others,  were  doing  the  same  thing,  and 


18  MY  DEBUT  IN  JOURNALISM. 

wondering  at  it.  There  was  something  in  the  at- 
mosphere of  The  Harbinger  office  which  had  a 
mollifying  effect  on  everybody  who  entered  Fergu- 
son's service,  and  at  the  end  of  two  months  I  found 
myself  very  well  contented  with  my  lot,  a  popular 
man  around  town,  and  the  possessor  of  more  furni- 
ture, curtains,  cooking  stoves,  etc.,  which  I  had 
taken  from  Ferguson  or  purchased  on  his  "  orders  " 
than  I  knew  what  to  do  with.  When  I  had  been 
with  him  six  months  I  was  one  day  in  sore  need 
of  money,  and  sought  his  office.  Luckily,  I  found 
him  in,  and  I  stated  my  case  with  a  degree  of  flu- 
ency that  ought  to  have  moved  him.  But  it  didn't. 
He  listened  patiently  until  I  had  closed,  and  then 
replied : 

"  Haven't  a  dollar  ;  but,"  pointing  to  a  corner, 
"there  are  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  of  galvan- 
ized iron  clothes-line  that  I  took  on  an  advertise- 
ment, which  I  will  sell  you  cheap." 

I  retired  heart-broken. 

Mr.  Ferguson  was  a  man  of  "orders."  There 
was  "nothing  under  the  canopy,  from  a  rotten 
apple  to  a  locomotive,"  as  he  phrased  it,  which  he 


J/} '  DEB  UT  IN  JO  URN  A  LI SM.  19 

could  not  furnish  on  call  or  give  an  "order"  for. 
"  I  get  a  man  to  advertise  in  The  Harbinger,  as  a 
general  thing,"  he  explained,  "on  the  strength  of 
my  offering  to  take  my  pay  out  in  trade.  Then  I 
send  you,  or  Ladd,  or  Rose,  or  Bowers,  and  buy 
about  fifty  dollars'  worth  of  truck,  and  I  keep  on 
buying  so  that  I  am  always  ahead  of  that  man.  He 
wants  to  take  his  advertisement  out  at  the  end  of 
three  months  but  he  cannot  do  it,  because  I  am 
owing  him.  Had  men  in  this  paper  several  years 
in  just  that  way.  Once  in  a  while  a  man  gets  mad, 
and  I  have  to  square  up  with  him  in  cash,  and  let 
him  take  his  advertisement  out,  but  that  doesn't 
often  happen." 

It  happened  sometimes,  however,  when  I  was 
present,  and  it  was  then  that  Ferguson's  abilities 
shone  resplendent.  The  reader  must  have  sur- 
mised that  Ferguson  was  always  short  of  ready 
money.  He  was.  So  when  one  of  these  trouble- 
some advertisers  came  along  and  demanded  a  settle- 
ment, Ferguson  would  meet  him  something  as  fol- 
lows: 

"I  owe  you  a  balance  of  $79.85.      I  have  no 


20  MY  DEB UT  IN  JO UKNA LISM. 

money,  but  I'll  give  you  my  note  for  thirty  days. 
Put  it  in  your  bank,  get  her  discounted,  and  I'll 
pay  the  discount.     Just  as  good  as  cash." 

To  this  the  party  of  the  other  side  would  assent, 
and  Ferguson  would  draw  up  a  note  in  very  pretty 
shape,  and  bringing  it  over  would  say: 

"I  have  made  this  note  for  $150,  because  I 
make  all  my  notes  for  a  round  sum.  You  get  it 
discounted,  and  send  me  your  check  for  the  bal- 
ance. Here,  Brooks,  go  down  with  Mr.  Blank 
and  bring  back  a  check."  And,  before  the  aston- 
ished recipient  of  the  note  could  recover  his  equi- 
poise, Ferguson  would  have  bowed  him  out  of  the 
room. 

Sometimes  the  men  who  accepted  these  promises 
to  pay,  and  gave  checks  which  could  be  used 
immediately,  found  themselves  in  a  rather  embar- 
rassed situation  when  the  notes  matured.  Fergu- 
son was  one  of  those  men  who  imagined  that  it 
added  dignity  and  character  to  a  promissory  note 
to  let  it  go  to  protest.  Thus  it  would  often  hap- 
pen that,  after  the  disaffected  advertiser  had  enjoyed 
the    felicity  of  paying  Ferguson's  note,   and    had 


MY  DEBUT  IN  JOURNALISM.  21 

visited  the  whistler  fifteen  or  twenty  times  without 
even  getting  sight  of  the  object  of  his  search,  I 
would  receive  a  letter  from  Ferguson  instructing 
me  to  write  a  third  of  a  column  notice  puffing  the 
business  of  the  man  to  whom  the  note  had  been 
given.  When  this  appeared,  Ferguson  would  drive 
to  the  store  of  the  whilom  customer,  and,  laying 
The  Harbinger  before  him,  would  say: 

"It  is  the  biggest  kind  of  a  shame  that  I  haven't 
taken  up  that  note,  but  I  have  not  had  the  money. 
I  haven't  it  now;  but  if  it  would  give  you  any  satis- 
faction to  kick  me,  you  are  at  liberty  to  do  it " — 
and  he  would  present  himself  for  chastisement. 

I  believe,  however,  that  he  was  never  kicked. 
After  this,  the  editorial  notice,  which  I  had  written 
the  night  before,  would  be  read  as  Ferguson's  own 
production,  and  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  that  $150 
would  be  taken  out  in  advertising — and  the  men 
thus  won  over  never  deserted  him.  They  had  met 
the  enemy,  and  they  were  his. 

Many  years  have  passed  since  I  wrote  my  last 
line  for  The  Harbinger,  but  sometimes,  sitting  in 
the  twilight,   the  remembrance  of  those  old  days 


22  MY  DEBUT  IN  JOURNALISM. 

comes  back  with  such  startling  force  that  it  seems 
as  if  the  atmosphere  of  The  Harbinger's  dingy  edi- 
torial room  was  still  around  me,  and  I  half  imagine 
I  see  Arthur  Bowers,  Dr.  Rose,  Pickett,  and  all  the 
others,  filing  up  the  narrow  stairway,  thankful  for 
such  small  favors  as  the  iconoclastic  and  persuasive 
Ferguson  doles  out  to  them.  I  do  not  forget  that 
above  the  dust  of  the  quaintly  original  Pickett  the 
springtide  winds  are  sighing  mournfully,  and  that 
the  correct  and  genial  Tilley  sleeps  the  deep 
slumber  from  which  there  is  no  earthly  awakening. 
I  know,  moreover,  that  the  others  are  widely  scat- 
tered; that  the  thundering  press,  whose  clangor 
was  as  music  to  my  youthful  ears,  is  stilled  for- 
ever, and  that  The  Harbinger  s  precarious  existence 
is  ended.  Still,  I  remember  it  kindly;  for  with  its 
life  are  associated  some  of  the  pleasantest  episodes 
in  mine.  And  Ferguson  ?  In  the  grand  cavalcade 
of  life-insurance  canvassers  he  has  taken  a  prom- 
inent place.     Writing  me  recently,  he  said: 

"At  present  I  am  working  and  talking  that  man- 
kind in  general  may  achieve  for  itself  a  grand  ben- 
eficent destiny,  by  providing  for  its  widows  and 
orphans." 


AN  AGREEABLE  SAUNTERER. 


AN  AGREEABLE  SAUNTERER. 

JAMES  DULIN,  practical  printer  and  cosmopoli- 
tan, was  a  type  of  a  class.  I  speak  of  him  in 
the  past  tense,  because  the  scenes  which  knew  him 
once  know  him  no  more;  and  it  is  almost  certain 
that  his  wanderings  are  over,  and  in  some  quiet 
nook,  lying  between  the  Gulf  Stream  and  the  golden 
sands  of  the  Pacific,  his  peaceful  dust  reposes.  I 
trust  that  fate  dealt  kindly  with  him  and  closed  his 
cheerful  being  in  no  unfavored  spot,  where  the 
winter  winds  sweep  mournfully  above  the  dead. 
Rather  let  me  indulge  the  sweet  belief  that  he  fell 
asleep  in  some  genial  clime,  where  the  long  grass 
growing  above  him,  is  stirred  only  by  kindly 
breezes,  and  where  the  flowers  exhale  their 
fragrance  from  June  to  June. 

My  acquaintance  with  Dulin  began  in  Providence 
a  few  years  after  the  close  of  the  great  civil  conflict 
— probably  in  1870.  I  was,  at  the  time,  the  hope- 
ful editor  of  a  struggling  daily  newspaper  which  has 
since  succumbed  to  the  inevitable,  after  a  praise- 


26  AN  AGREEABLE  SAUNTERER. 

worthy  but  futile  attempt  to  convince  the  Demo- 
cracy of  Rhode  Island  that  it  was  worthy  of  en- 
couragement and  support.  The  portly  and  punc- 
tilious ship  news  reporter,  Mr.  Tilley,  complained 
to  me  one  afternoon  that  the  regular  marine  news 
compositor  was  absent  on  one  of  his  periodical 
enterprises,  the  objective  point  of  which  was  to 
demonstrate,  to  his  own  satisfaction,  that  sorrow 
may  be  effectually  buried  by  recourse  to  the  flow- 
ing bowl.  The  complainant  added  that  "  some- 
thing must  be  done,"  as  the  new  incumbent  was 
making  the  ship  news  simply  ridiculous  by  his  mis- 
chievous blunders  in  reading  copy.  Mr.  Tilley 
then  proceeded  to  descant  on  the  plainness  of  his 
manuscript,  and  appealed  to  me  to  corroborate  his 
claim  that  his  handwriting  was  as  legible  as  reprint. 
I  assented  to  the  proposition,  but  with  a  colossal 
mental  reservation,  for  Mr.  Tilley  usually  wrote 
with  a  dull-pointed  lead  pencil  about  half  an  inch 
in  length,  and  his  writing  bore  about  the  same  re- 
lation to  penmanship  that  the  pot-hooks  and  tram- 
mels used  by  the  shorthand  reporters  of  old  bear 
to  the  modern  and  thoroughly  perfected  system  of 


AN  AGREEABLE  SAUNTERER.  27 

phonography.  But  feeling  sorry  for  the  genial  and 
kindly  soul  who  had  come  to  me  for  sympathy,  I 
volunteered  to  go  upstairs  and  see  if  some  im- 
provement could  not  be  had.  This  proposal  was 
rather  impatiently  received,  Mr.  Tilley  ejaculating 
sharply,  "You  can't  do  anything  with  him.  He 
wont  say  anything  but  '  Kayrect.'  I  wrote  yester- 
day that  the  schooner  Jane  Montgomery  had  arrived 
with  three  hundred  carboys  for  Chambers  & 
Calder.  It  was  printed  three  hundred  cabbages. 
Everybody  is  laughing  at  me.  It  is  shameful 
that  after  forty  years'  experience  as  a  marine 
reporter  I  should  fall  into  the  clutches  of  an  irre- 
sponsible tramp  printer  and  be  made  to  arrive 
cabbages  for  one  of  the  largest  drug  houses  in  this 
section." 

By  this  time  the  old  gentleman  was  walking  up 
and  down  the  room  greatly  excited. 

"And  when  I  went  to  him  and  remonstrated," 
cried  Mr.  Tilley, "  what  does  the  loafer  do  but  wink 
at  me!  Yes,  sir,  he  winked  at  me  and  said:  'Don't 
distress  yourself,  uncle ;  no  one  ever  reads  the 
ship  news  slop.     Such  skulch  is  printed,  when  used 


28  AN  AGREEABLE  SAUNTERER. 

at  all,  to  flatter  the  vanity  of  old  fossils  like  you 
who  can't  do  anything  else  but  spy  out  vessels' 
names  through  a  glass.  You  don't  seem  to  under- 
stand it ;  the  publisher  has  no  real  need  for  you  ; 
he  just  lets  you  fool  with  the  ship  news  rather  than 
hurt  your  feelings  by  putting  you  on  a  pension.  If 
I  were  running  this  paper  I  would  have  put  you 
on  the  retired  list  as  eirly  as  1847.'  Heavens  and 
earth  !  I  let  into  him  after  that  speech,"  concluded 
the  speaker,  whose  face  now  rivaled  the  hue  of  a  well 
boiled  lobster. 

"And  he  promised  to  be  more  careful  in  the 
future  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  Careful  !  not  he.  He  just  winked  at  me  again 
— a  plague  on  his  familiar  winking — and  said, 
'  Kayrect.'  "  With  this  Mr.  Tilley  seized  his  spy- 
glass and  notebook,  and  passed  out,  slamming  the 
door  after  him. 

When  I  had  once  more  demolished  the  preten- 
sions of  the  Republican  party  in  a  column  article, 
and  had  produced  accompanying  paragraphs  and 
political  notes  to  fill  the  regular  amount  of  space 
devoted  to  my  use,  I  took  my  copy  and  climbed  a 


AN  A  G  REE  ABLE  SA  UNTERER.  29 

pair  of  untidy  stairs   leading    to    the    composing 
room. 

"Who  is  slug  nine  while  Wilcox  is  absent  ?  "  I 
inquired,  addressing  collectively  the  dozen  or 
fifteen  men  who  had  been  throwing  in  their  cases, 
and  who  were  waiting  for  the  copy  which  I  held  in 
my  hand.  A  companionable  looking  man  of 
about  thirty  years,  in  broken  boots,  a  frilled  shirt 
and  a  vest  and  pantaloons  which  proclaimed  as 
distinctly  as  tongueless  clothes  could  speak  that 
they  were  originally  intended  to  adorn  a  differently 
proportioned  person  than  their  present  wearer, 
stepped  forward  and  said  pleasantly:  "  I  am  slug 
nine — James  Dulin  ;  I've  got  a  working  card, 
and  I'm  in  a  good  standing  with  the  Union." 

"  In  better  standing  with  the  Union  than  with 
Mr.  Tilley,  perhaps,"  I  said,  smiling.  Dulin  had 
taken  the  first  page  of  manuscript  and  had  gone  to 
his  case  while  I  was  speaking.     I  followed  him. 

"The  fact  is,"  he  said,  good  naturedly,  and 
with  an  inoffensive  degree  of  freedom  which  indi- 
cated that  in  his  opinion,  at  least,  there  could  not 
possibly  be  any  lack  of  sympathy  between  gentle- 


30  AN  AGREEABLE  SAUNTERER. 

men  like  him  and  me,  "the  fact  is  the  old  party 
with  the  telescope  and  that  stub-toed  lead  pencil 
doesn't  turn  out  just  the  stuff  for  a  stranger  to 
tackle.  I'm  all  right  on  '  straight  matter '  like 
this  truck  of  yours.  If  it  were  not  good  manu- 
script— which  it  is — I  would  still  be  all  right.  But 
old  Carboy  is  a  tough  citizen  as  a  quill  driver,  I 
can  tell  you.  He  came  up  here  when  I  was  new 
and  nervous,  talking  about  those  cabbages,  and  he 
wasn't  very  choice  in  his  language.  I  wished  to 
respect  his  age  and  said  nothing  until  he  told  me 
he  was  a  '  comp. '  That  pricked  my  professional 
piide,  and  I  lost  my  temper.  Bless  his  crabbed 
old  soul,  he  couldn't  stick  type  in  these  days  ;  and 
I  told  him  so.  I  reckon  he  doesn't  like  me  pretty 
well  from  what  he  said,"  Dulin  added,  thought- 
fully, "but  I  can't  help  it.  The  old  and  new  do 
not  assimilate,  you  know.  He  thinks  I  am  too 
young  for  the  responsible  task  of  setting  his 
matter ;  while  in  my  judgment  he  should  have 
been  planted  twenty  years  ago.  He  doesn't  seem 
to  see  it ;  but,  really,  Methuselahs  are  not  in 
fashion  in  this  nineteenth  century.     It  is  too  pro- 


AN  AGREEABLE  SAUNTERER.  31 

gressive  an  age  to  admit  of  our  encouraging  the 
veteran  to  any  great  extent.  In  fact,  the  veteran, 
as  has  been  remarked  before,  is  inclined  to  lag 
reluctant  on  the  stage  without  any  special  induce- 
ments." 

After  a  veiy  pleasant  talk,  in  the  course  of  which 
I  cautioned  Dulin  against  making  any  further 
errors  in  Mr.  Tilley's  reports  of  the  same  absurd 
character  as  the  one  which  had  annoyed  the  old 
gentleman  so  greatly,  I  left  the  room.  As  I  passed 
into  the  hall  I  heard  Dulin  ejaculate  with  a  some- 
what irrevelant  prefix  that  he  "couldn't  set  type 
on  an  empty  stomach."  One  of  the  other  com- 
positors dropped  his  stick  in  astonishment  and 
replied  : 

"  Why  !  I  lent  you  some  money  to  get  break- 
fast with,  didn't  I  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Dulin,  as  he  went  to  the  "galley" 
and  emptied  a  stickful  of  matter,  before  any  of  his 
companions  had  set  half  as  much,  "yes,  you  lent 
me  money.  It  was  very  kind  of  you,  too,  Eben  ; 
but  an  empty  '  comp '  can't  spread  himself  on 
fifteen  cents." 


32  AN  A  GREEA  BLE  SA  UNTERER . 

"  But  it  was  half  a  dollar  I  gave  you,"  pursued 
Eben. 

"  Kayrect,"  responded  Dulin,  "but  I  paid  out 
thirty-five  cents  of  it  for  getting  my  moustache 
painted." 

I  then  noticed  for  the  first  time,  as  Dulin  re- 
turned to  his  case  and  transferred  the  type  to  his 
stick  with  marvelous  rapidity,  that  his  moustache 
had  indeed  just  received  an  application  which  gave 
it  the  appearance  of  a  very  inky  tooth  brush.  This 
exhibition  of  vulgar  taste  on  Dulin's  part  hurt  my 
feelings;  but  when  the  "proofs"  came  down  to 
the  editorial  room  that  night  for  correction,  and 
never  an  error,  typographical  or  otherwise,  dis- 
covered itself  under  slug  nine,  I  yielded  him  his 
full  due  of  admiration,  and  went  home  well  forti- 
fied in  my  belief  that  he  was  a  real  acquisition  to 
the  paper,  and  half  convinced  that  if  a  man  wished 
to  dye  his  subnasal  appendage  and  make  himself 
ridiculous,  it  was  nobody's  business  but  his  own. 

Dulin  made  his  reputation  very  rapidly,  and  at 
the  end  of  a  month,  having  made  "  large  bills,"  he 
indulged  his  taste  for  fashionable  attire  by  giving 


AN  A  GREEA BLE  SA  UNTERER.  33 

his  order  to  the  leading  tailor  for  "a  complete 
outfit,"  as  he  expressed  it.  A  few  weeks  later  he 
left  town.  Meeting  him  on  the  street  and  hearing 
of  his  determination  to  take  the  train  for  New 
York  that  evening,  I  accompanied  him  to  the 
station.  As  the  train  was  about  to  start  he  quietly 
observed  : 

"  I  heard  what  you  said  about  it.  It  did  sort 
of  size  my  intellect ;  but,  somehow,  it  never  struck 
me  that  way  before.  If  you  ever  see  me  again  it 
will  show  up  straw  color  as  nature  made  it.  We 
learn  mighty  slowly,  particularly  in  these  matters  of 
taste,  old  man;  and  I've  never  had  so  much  of  a 

chance  as  some  men  to " 

The  train  moved  off,  thus  abbreviating  his  dis- 
course as  quoted  above,  and  leaving  me,  blushing 
and  embarrassed,  to  learn  that  anything  I  had  said 
of  his  inclination  to  avail  himself  of  the  friendly 
offices  of  nitrate  of  silver  had  reached  his  ears. 

The  delicate  health  of  The  Plantation  Harbinger — 
it  was  always  in  pecuniary  distress — together  with 
a  longing  to  display  my  energy  and  journalistic 
blandishments  in  a  wider  field,  ultimately  persuaded 


34  AN  AGREEABLE  SAUNTERER. 

me  to  seek  my  fortune  in  New  York.  I  met  Dulin 
occasionally  in  Printing  House  Square,  and  came 
to  learn  by  degrees  that  the  Dulin  of  my  imagina- 
tion and  the  real  Dulin  possessed  remarkable  points 
of  difference.  The  discovery  made  me  melancholy 
at  first — it  is  very  saddening  to  see  our  idols  dashed 
before  our  very  eyes.  But  there  was  no  escape  for 
me  ;  and  little  by  little  I  learned  Dulin's  history 
and  some  of  his  ways,  and  became  reconciled  to 
the  inevitable.  It  appeared  that  notwithstanding 
he  was  an  expert  compositor  and  had  performed 
splendid  service  on  many  occasions  when  the 
emergency  of  the  moment  demanded  it,  he  very 
rarely  soiled  his  fingers  by  bringing  them  in  contact 
with  prosaic  type.  I  was  told  that  he  was  a  tele- 
graph operator  as  well  as  a  compositor,  and  that  his 
crowning  glory  was  one  of  the  sweetest  tenor  voices 
to  be  heard  this  side  of  Italy.  It  transpired  that  he 
relied  upon  his  telegraphic  relations  for  the  pro- 
curement of  railroad  passes  from  time  to  time  ; 
upon  his  skill  as  a  printer  to  obtain  what  money 
was  necessary  to  meet  his  pressing  wants  ;  and 
upon  his  ability  to  tell  an  amusing  story  or  sing 


AN  AGREEABLE  SAUNTERER.  35 

a  song  to  advance  his  social  interests.  He  was 
well  groomed  and  characterized  by  an  air  of  genteel 
prosperity.  Having  incidentally  told  me  a  month 
after  my  arrival  that  he  was  looking  for  a  boarding 
place,  I  invited  him  to  share  my  own  room  and 
take  his  meals  with  me  until  he  could  make  some 
better  arrangement.  He  cordially  adopted  my  sug- 
gestion and  made  me  a  longer  visit  than  I  had 
expected  he  would.  But  he  was  always  cheerful 
and  deferential  and  his  society  was  rather  pleasant 
and  desirable,  although  the  discharge  of  my  in- 
debtedness, incurred  on  his  account,  added  to  my 
own  expenses,  made  sad  havoc  with  my  slender 
income.  He  finally  gathered  his  impedimenta  to- 
gether one  morning,  and  simply  saying, '  'Au  revoir, 
if  I  shouldn't  come  back  again,"  passed  out-of- 
doors  softly  whistling  an  air  from  "Mignon." 
That  was  the  last  I  saw  of  him  for  two  years.  I 
renewed  my  acquaintance  with  him  as  he  stepped 
out  of  a  coupe  in  front  of  the  Hoffman  House  one 
September  morning.  He  insisted  that  I  should 
breakfast  with  him.  We  talked  upon  every  con- 
ceivable subject;  and  he  casually  mentioned  as  we 


36  AN  AGREEABLE  SAUNTERER. 

separated,  that  he  had  just  returned  from  Havana, 
where  he  had  been  the  guest  of  a  wealthy  New  York 
merchant.  I  never  saw  him  afterward,  though  for 
some  years  later  I  heard  of  him  at  intervals — some- 
times in  one  locality  and  again  in  another — always 
well  fed,  fairly  clothed,  and  invariably  popular. 

When  Dulin  told  me  he  had  been  the  guest  of  a 
generous  host  in  Havana  I  was  not  surprised,  for 
it  was  as  the  honored  guest  of  somebody  or  other 
that  he  generally  figured.  In  his  day  he  had  tarried 
for  indefinite  periods  beneath  the  hospitable  roofs  of 
reporters,  city  editors,  publishers,  telegraph  super- 
intendents, railroad  magnates  and  their  subordi- 
nates. He  had  an  especial  fondness  for  railroad 
and  steamboat  people;  and  in  his  latter  days,  when 
"passes"  were  difficult  to  get  he  continued  his 
travels  just  the  same,  depending  upon  his  linguistic 
accomplishments  to  remove  the  obstacles  to  riding 
free  which  lie  in  the  way  of  ordinary  mortals.  Once 
in  a  long  time  a  newly  appointed  conductor  would 
compel  him  to  leave  the  train;  but  he  boarded  the 
next  one  that  came  along,  and  improved  the  time 
placed  at  his  disposal,  by  these  enforced  delays,  by 


AN  AGREEABLE  SAUNTER ER.  37 

a  tour  of  the  town  if  he  happened  to  debark  at  a 
metropolis,  or  by  going  out  into  the  fields  and 
watching  the  flight  of  the  birds,  noting  the  methods 
of  the  husbandman  or  listening  to  the  hum  of  the 
bees,  if  it  were  his  good  fortune  to  be  stranded  at  a 
way  station. 

But  in  spite  of  his  tendency  to  visit,  Dulin 
rarely,  if  ever,  wore  his  welcome  entirely  out.  He 
seemed  to  know  by  intuition  when  the  pleasure 
his  presence  gave  was  waning,  and  at  the  proper 
moment  he  departed.  Unless  he  had  been  invited 
elsewhere,  he  would  repair  to  some  democratic 
resort  of  entertainment  where  the  admission  and 
music  were  free  and  where  the  beverages  were  dis- 
pensed at  nominal  prices.  Here,  assuming  an 
attitude  of  respectful  attention,  he  would  await 
with  stoical  patience  the  rosy  opportunity  which 
never  failed  to  come.  If  he  were  disappointed  on 
the  first  night  he  would  go  again,  and  ultimately 
the  hour  arrived  when  the  tenor  of  the  occasion 
was  indisposed  or  inebriated,  and  the  cry  would 
be  raised,  "We  must  have  a  song!  Who  can 
sing  a  song  ? "     Rising  modestly,  Dulin  would  say 


38  AN  AGREEABLE  SAUNTERER 

in  an  unobtrusive  way,  that  his  voice  was  husky 
from  long  disuse ;  that  the  words  of  many  of  the 
songs  he  had  once  known  had  escaped  his  mem- 
ory ;  but  that,  if  it  were  agreeable,  he  would  try 
and  sing  "  I  Would  I  Were  a  Bird.'' 

His  vocal  performances  never  failed  to  elicit  in- 
vitations to  eat  and  drink,  and  then,  warmed  by  a 
moderate  quantity  of  stimulant  and  reinforced  by 
a  larger  amount  of  digestible  food  than  had  sur- 
prised his  inner  man  since  his  departure  from  the 
gates  of  his  most  recent  entertainer,  he  would 
sing,  "Come  Where  My  Love  Lies  Dreaming," 
"Annie  Laurie,"  and  other  ensnaring  ballads. 
And  he  sang  in  tones  so  sympathetic  and  with  an 
art  so  utterly  devoid  of  art  that  he  brought  tears  to 
his  hearers'  eyes,  and  invariably  attracted  to  his 
side  some  impressionable  fellow-being  who,  for  the 
nonce,  had  forgotten  the  price  of  pork  or  of  can- 
dles, and  was  giving  his  soul  a  holiday  by  seeking 
the  scenes  where  beer  and  song  held  sway.  These 
appreciative  and  unsophisticated  sons  of  trade, 
who  seldom  visited  the  halls  of  jollity  and  wassail, 
and  to  whom  men  of  Dulin's  sort  were  as  a  revela- 


AN  AGREEABLE  SAUNTERER.  39 

tion,  were  his  natural  victims.  "You  have  a 
splendid  voice,  sir,"  "That  was  a  touching  song, 
young  man,"  and  similar  observations  were  cues 
for  which  Dulin  was  ever  watchful.  He  never 
took  the  initiative,  but  waited  with  a  degree  of 
reticence,  almost  touching,  for  overtures  from 
those  whom  he  had  mentally  selected  as  a  means 
to  his  future  aggrandizement.  Winning  in  man- 
ner, deferential  and  responsive,  he  seldom  failed  to 
become  the  guest  of  whomsoever,  entertaining  the 
opinion  that  his  voice  was  good,  was  indiscreet 
enough  to  mention  it. 

To  an  acquaintance  who  had  taken  a  position 
as  station  agent  and  telegraph  operator  on  the 
Union  Pacific  Railroad,  Dulin  once  wrote  as  fol- 
lows : 

"My  Dear  Proctor — My  luck  has  changed 
again  ;  my  star  is  dim  and  I  am  going  West.  I 
am  not  in  funds,  but  I  hope  to  close  the  weary  ex- 
panse lying  between  us  in  the  course  of  the  next 
twenty  days.  The  itinerant  telegraphers  have  of 
late  been  showing  a  preference  for  the  turnpike, 
and  they  give   sombre   accounts  of  the  methods 


40  AN  A  GREEABLE  SA  UNTERER. 

which  the  modern  conductor  is  developing  in  the 
absence  of  transportation  papers.  But  I  fancy  the 
conductor's  heart  is  as  green  as  ever,  and  has  only 
taken  on  a  veneering  of  brusqueness,  so  to  speak, 
in  pretended  recognition  of  the  prevailing  tendency, 
on  the  part  of  his  superior  officers,  to  adopt  a  par- 
simonious and  grinding  policy  towaid  the  public, 
looking  to  an  increased  return  for  money  invested 
and  the  augmentation  of  railroad  power.  In  any 
event,  I  have  no  dreams  of  pedestrianic  honors  as 
an  outcome  of  my  contemplated  pilgrimage  toward 
the  setting  sun.  Humanity  is  all  of  one  clay — 
only  the  outward  limbs  and  flourishes  are  variant. 
Once  we  reach  a  man's  core  all  is  won ;  and  the 
conductor  is  no  exception  to  this  universal  rule. 
In  my  occasional  ramblings  from  New  York  to  the 
Pacific  coast,  and  from  Montreal  to  Galveston,  the 
average  conductor  has  proven  to  my  satisfaction 
that  he  is  a  credit  to  humanity ;  and  in  thrusting 
myself  upon  his  attention  now  I  trust,  by  tarrying 
over  a  train  now  and  again  at  points  where  the 
attractions  of  the  town  or  the  beauty  of  the  land- 
scape merit  the  attention  of  an  indolent  tourist,  to 
grasp  your  cordial  hand  about  the  seventh  prox- 
imo. Across  the  yawning  chasm  of  space  which 
lies    between    us — two    thousand    three    hundred 


AN  AGREEABLE  SAUNTERER.  41 

miles,  according  to  '  Rand  McNally ' — I  send  my 
greeting.  I  promise  myself  great  pleasure  during 
the  week  I  hope  to  pass  with  you  before  leaving 
for  the  remoter  West.  God  bless  you,  my  boy, 
and  if  you  ever  pray,  don't  fail  to  remember  in 
your  devotion,  that  I  have  undertaken  a  long  jour- 
ney and  that  a  prayer  or  two  may  help  to  pull  me 
through  on  time." 

Fifteen  days  after  the  receipt  of  Dulin's  letter, 
and  somewhat  to  his  friend's  surprise,  he  stepped 
gaily  from  a  westward  bound  train  at  Bridger  ;  and 
after  making  a  ten  days'  stop,  he  proceeded  on- 
ward to  Virginia  City,  to  take  up  the  long  dropped 
threads  of  an  acquaintance  with  Dan  de  Quille,  and 
test  the  quality  of  that  gentleman's  hospitality. 
During  his  stay  at  Bridger  he  feasted  royally  on 
canned  oysters  and  other  delicacies  suited  to  his 
cultivated  tastes.  He  was  always  entertaining  and 
his  society  was  much  sought.  His  bill  amounted 
to  thirty-eight  dollars,  but  it  was  cheerfully  paid  by 
his  entertainer,  and  while  his  departure  was  not 
regretted,  his  friend  would  not  have  hastened  it  by 
an  hour  if  he  could.      Indeed,  so  nicely  did  Dulin 


42  AN  AGREEABLE  SAUNTERER. 

balance  everything  that  his  arrivals  and  departures 
seemed  to  be  in  accordance  with  the  eternal  fitness 
of  things ;  and  no  one  ever  seemed  to  regret  any- 
thing which  happened  on  his  account. 

I  have  been  impelled  to  write  this  desultory 
paper  by  accidentally  coming  upon  a  bright  bit  of 
humorous  writing,  by  a  Western  philosopher,  affect- 
ing the  proposition  which  has  so  long  gone  un- 
challenged, viz.:  "The  world  owes  me  a  living." 
This  writer  says  :  "  The  world  may  owe  you  a 
living,  son,  if  you  can  get  it.  But  if  you  are  not 
spry,  the  world  doesn't  care  much  whether  you 
get  it  or  not.  The  world  got  along,  son,  very  well 
before  you  came  into  it ;  and  it  will  continue  to 
whirl  on  its  axis  when  you  are  gone."  This  is 
sound  doctrine  ;  it  is  a  sensible  every-day  philoso- 
phy, which  can  be  safely  followed  by  ordinary 
travelers  along  life's  great  highway  ;  and  I  sub- 
scribe to  it  unhesitatingly  and  with  all  my  heart. 
But  what,  I  wonder,  would  James  Dulin  have 
thought  of  it?  What  would  those  who  belong  to 
the  class  of  which  he  was  a  type  say  to  such  simple 
teachings  ? 


AN  AGREEABLE  SAUNTERER.  43 

I  can  easily  imagine  the  scorn  with  which  Dulin 
would  have  regarded  such  an  assumption.  And 
when  I  remember  his  successful  pursuit  of  what  he 
conceived  to  be  the  highest  order  of  happiness,  I  am 
inclined  to  doubt  the  truth  of  his  own  proposition 
that  "humanity  is  all  of  one  clay."  Perhaps,  just 
as  there  are  religious  natures  so  peculiarly  con- 
structed as  forms  to  despise,  creeds  to  distrust,  pre- 
tensions to  deride,  there  are  men  possessed  of 
mental  organizations  differing  so  radically  from 
the  general  one  that  they  work  out  their  individual 
destinies  by  a  violation  of  those  moral  laws  and 
conceded  principles  through  an  observance  of 
which  the  majority  attain  happiness,  prosperity  and 
honor.  Dulin  achieved  those  ends,  undoubtedly, 
by  his  own  unorthodox  means  ;  for  with  him  it  was 
happiness  to  be  a  transient  guest,  prosperity  to 
travel  across  the  Continent  without  the  formality 
of  purchasing  a  ticket,  and  honor  of  the  superbest 
quality  to  resemble  the  lilies  which  neither  toil  nor 
spin. 


MISS  BRITTON'S  ROMANCE. 


MISS  BRITTON'S  ROMANCE. 

"  1  AM  not  willing  to  accept  so  small  a  royalty 
on  the  sales  of  the  etching  and  I  will  with- 
draw the  plate,  if  you  please.  You'll  find  it 
entered  up  against  my  own  name — King,  Herki7iier 
King — and  not  against  my  nom  de guerre." 

The  person  addressed  was  a  clerk  in  one  of  the 
New  York  publishing  houses,  and  after  referring  to 
a  record  book  he  produced,  from  among  many 
parcels,  a  package  which  he  handed  to  the  first 
speaker.  I  had  come  into  the  room  just  as  Mr. 
King  had  spoken  the  words  quoted  above.  I  had 
heard  his  name  before  and  was  not  surprised  that 
he  should  bestow  a  look  of  intelligence  upon  me. 
He  made  an  almost  imperceptible  halt  near  the 
door  and  I  imagined  he  faintly  nodded,  but  he 
shot  out  of  the  office  without  speaking. 

Herkimer  King  !  I  hadn't  thought  of  him  in  an 
age.  I  am  rather  loth  to  count  up  the  number  of 
years  ago  it  was  that  I  formed  King's  acquaintance 


48  MISS  BRITTON'S  ROMANCE. 

up  among  the  white  hills  of  New  Hampshire.  I 
was  sitting  on  the  piazza  of  the  Profile  House  one 
afternoon  when  the  stage  arrived  from  the  Craw- 
ford House.  King  and  his  newly- made  wife,  ac- 
companied by  a  middle-aged  lady,  were  among 
the  passengers.  Mrs.  King  was  one  of  the  pretti- 
est women  I  had  ever  seen,  but  impressionable  as 
I  was  in  those  remote  days,  I  was  much  more  in- 
terested in  the  middle-aged  lady  than  in  her  youth- 
ful companion.  The  elder  lady's  face  was  one  of 
the  most  refined  I  had  ever  beheld,  and  she  had  the 
graceful  carriage,  the  dignified  poise  of  head  and 
the  general  air  which  those  who  have  not  been 
abroad  are  wont  to  associate  with  queens. 

In  the  evening  King  came  to  me  for  a  bit  of  fire 
for  his  cigar  as  I  was  promenading  up  and  down 
the  piazza,  and  we  were  soon  chatting  together 
familiarly.  In  the  course  of  conversation  I  inquired 
about  the  lady  who  accompanied  him.  He  made 
some  evasive  answer  and  began  to  sing  softly  to 
himself.  The  burden  of  his  song,  I  remember, 
referred  to  the  palpable  advantages  of  a  starry  night 
for  a  ramble.     Presently  he  said  : 


MISS  MUTTON'S  ROMANCE.  49 

"Quite  a  singular  story  associated  with  that 
lady.  I  have  known  her  a  long,  long  time.  Per- 
haps I  can  interest  you  by  relating  the  salient  fea- 
tures of  what  I  call  'her  romance.' ' 

I  said,  promptly,  that  I  had  no  doubt  he  could 
and  begged  him  to  proceed.  His  narrative  ran  as 
follows  : 

"  Her  name  is  Edith  Britton.  She  is  no  longer 
young,  as  you  saw,  but  she  will  always  be  attrac- 
tive. Time  was,  too,  when  she  was  pretty  enough, 
as  many  of  the  Yale  alumni  can  bear  sorrowful  tes- 
timony. I  was  too  young  when  I  first  met  her  to 
be  justified  in  aspiring  to  share  her  winning  smile 
with  my  full  grown  associates,  but  I  knew  that  her 
ways  were  sunny  and  her  whole  bearing  that  of  a 
thorough  lady.  In  those  days  she  was  a  medium- 
sized,  brown-haired,  rosy-cheeked  maiden,  with 
graceful  manners,  a  finished  education,  and  her 
voice  was  a  sort  of  '  vocal  velvet. '  She  attracted 
suitors  without  number,  and  among  those  who 
worshiped  at  her  shrine  in  those  ante-war  days 
were  two  students  who  have  since  become  eminent 
lawyers,  one  who  has  developed  into  a  railroad 


50  MISS  BRITTON'S  ROMANCE. 

president,  another  who  now  shares  with  only  one 
man  the  honor  of  being  the  leading  journalist  of 
the  West,  while  still  others  are  occupying  positions 
of  more  or  less  importance  in  mercantile  pursuits, 
medicine  and  the  law.  It  was  naturally  discour- 
aging to  be  rejected,  but  none  of  them,  I  believe, 
ever  cherished  a  moment's  resentment  when  each, 
in  his  turn,  was  denied  a  closer  companionship 
than  that  of  friend,  and  Harry  Perkins,  a  passen- 
ger-train conductor,  was  accepted  as  the  man  of 
men  and  it  was  settled  that  Miss  Britton  should  be- 
come Mrs.  Perkins. 

"As  the  word  is  usually  understood,  Perkins  was 
one  of  the  most  patriotic  of  men.  Without  pos- 
sessing any  particularly  noble  traits  of  character 
or  any  unusual  mental  gifts  or  acquirements,  he 
had  a  blind  confidence  in  the  greatness  of  the 
United  States,  and  an  almost  idolatrous  faith  in  the 
puissance  of  the  American  eagle,  while  to  him  the 
American  flag  meant  more  than  any  other  symbol 
upon  which  his  eyes  had  ever  rested.  As  would 
logically  follow,  therefore,  when  hostilities  between 
the  Government  and  the  South  were  avowed  and 


MISS  BRITTON'S  ROMANCE.  51 

Anderson's  brave  little  band  in  Charleston  harbor 
were  assailed  by  Confederate  guns,  the  smoul- 
dering enthusiasm  in  Harry  Perkins'  bosom  burst 
into  flame,  and  dropping  every  pursuit,  including 
that  of  love  making,  in  which  he  was  largely  en- 
gaged just  then,  he  donned  the  blue  and  went 
marching  southward  to  martial  measure.  We 
heard  but  little  from  him  after  he  went  away,  and 
though  it  was  generally  admitted  that  Miss  Britton 
was  in  regular  receipt  of  letters  from  her  soldier 
lover,  it  was  occasionally  hinted  that  the  epistolary 
blandishments  of  Private  Perkins,  of  which  some- 
thing had  been  known  in  the  bud,  had  not  devel- 
oped into  perfect  flower  as  a  result  of  his  associa- 
tion with  the  implements  of  war  and  the  carnage 
of  sanguinary  strife. 

' '  My  old  associates  often  used  to  discuss  Perkins. 
They  were  anxious  to  discover  what  there  was 
about  the  fellow  that  should  have  secured  him 
favor  with  a  woman  who  had  discouraged  so  many 
handsomer,  cleverer  and  finer  grained  men  than  he. 
As  I  neared  my  majority  and  an  incipient  mous- 
tache began  to  disfigure  my  upper  lip,  I  sometimes 


52  MISS  BRITTON'S  ROMANCE. 

took  a  modest  part  in  these  debates.  But  that  was 
a  long  time  ago.  I  have  grown  wiser  since.  No 
sensible  man,  I  fancy,  ever  bothers  his  head  any 
more  endeavoring  to  analyze  the  elusive  causes 
underlying  the  preferences  of  women.  I  can 
answer  for  one  who  does  not,  at  all  events,  for  I 
am  inclined  to  class  their  preferences  with  their 
hates  and  quarrels,  of  which  the  astute  Henry 
Clay  once  said,  shaking  his  head  helplessly  : 
*  They  are  like  the  hates  and  quarrels  of  the 
Medes  and  Persians — they  admit  of  neither  inquiry 
nor  explanation.' 

' '  Years  passed  by,  and  the  unfortunate  war,  which 
had  carried  such  cruel  havoc  to  heart  and  purse,  both 
North  and  South,  had  terminated.  On  every  hand 
bells  were  ringing,  and  up  from  throats,  irrespective 
of  their  owners' political  predilections,  went  joyous 
cheers  for  the  great  captain  who  had  smoothed 
war's  wrinkled  front  by  his  negotiations  at  Appo- 
mattox. Again  sweet  peace  reigned  in  our  land, 
and  all  was  hope  and  thanksgiving  everywhere. 
Each  and  every  north-bound  train  brought  back 
those  of  our  brave,  battered  boys  who  had  escaped 


MISS  BR  IT  TON'S  ROMANCE.  53 

death  by  bullet  and  disease,  while  the  dismembered 
ranks  of  the  Confederates  were  broken,  and  the 
sturdy  fellows  who  had  fought  for  a  principle  they 
conceived  to  be  right  sought  their  dismantled 
homes.  But  the  tidal  wave  flowing  northward  did 
not  restore  Perkins  to  the  eager  arms  of  his  affi- 
anced wife.  And  yet  sufficient  evidence  of  his  safe 
delivery  from  the  crucible  of  battle  reached  Miss 
Britton's  ears  to  satisfy  her  that  he  still  lived.  Mean- 
time she  had  passed  beyond  the  pale  of  youth  and 
was  entering  upon  the  epoch  of  mature  spinster- 
hood.  The  crimson  in  her  cheeks  began  to  fade, 
the  gloss  went  gradually  but  surely  from  her 
beautifully  abundant  hair,  and  perchance  a  re- 
minder that  life  was  transitory — a  reminder  in  the 
shape  of  a  silvery  thread — came,  now  and  again, 
and  shone  among  her  luxuriant  tresses. 

"About  this  time  Jack  Dunwoody,  one  of  her  old 
Yale  lovers,  who  had  married  in  the  South  during 
the  war,  and  who  had  meantime  been  widowed, 
renewed  his  suit,  but  without  success.  He  made 
me  his  confidant  and  we  discussed  Miss  Britton's 
prolonged  engagement  the  better  part  of  the  night. 


54  MISS  BRITTON'S  ROMANCE. 

She  had  made  her  choice,  Jack  contended,  and  it 
would  be  her  final  one.  Deserving  or  undeserving 
as  Perkins  might  have  been,  Miss  Britton  had  given 
him  her  heart,  and  while  it  was  plainly  doubtful  if 
he  ever  returned  to  claim  the  treasure  which  had 
awaited  him  through  all  the  years,  Dunwoody  was 
satisfied  that  no  one  else  would  ever  fill  the  place 
in  her  heart  where  Perkins,  in  fact,  or  his  memory, 
the  idea,  was  imperishably  enshrined.  I  do  not 
altogether  indorse  Jack's  reasoning,  and  of  course 
I  am  not  responsible  for  it.  His  views  are  pecu- 
liar, and  he  discussed  the  subject  something  after 
this  fashion  : 

"'I  sometimes  think  a  woman  enjoys  the  ' '  might 
have  been  "  more  than  she  does  the  bright  reality. 
To  her  everything  is  dearest  which  is  tinged  with 
sadness.  Her  favorite  poem  is  pretty  sure  to  be 
"  Lucille,"  her  choice  in  music  most  certainly  in- 
cludes Gottschalk's  "Last  Hope,"  and  the  songs 
which  she  adores  are  "When  the  Flowing  Tide 
Comes  In,"  if  she  chances  to  like  Millard  ; 
"  Will  He  Come  ?"  if  Sullivan  be  her  preference,  or 
"Three  Fishers  Went  Sailing  Out  into  the  West," 


MISS  BRITTOJV'S  ROMANCE.  55 

if  she  has  a  fondness  for  Charles  Kingsley.  The 
frame  of  mind  which  we  regard  as  melancholy  and 
unfortunate  is,  perhaps,  a  woman's  most  ecstatic 
condition.  She  is  loyal  by  nature,  and  if  oppor- 
tunity has  enabled  her  to  show  her  fealty  to  a  per- 
son or  an  idea,  then  is  she  happy.  If,  in  addition, 
there  is  a  dash  of  mystery  thrown  in  as  part  and 
parcel  of  her  life  and  love,  her  imagination,  ever 
active  and  alert,  fills  in  the  lapses  left  by  actualities, 
and  a  series  of  alluring  memories,  impressions, 
hopes  and  aspirations — all  of  them  mere  intangi- 
bilities— are  the  result.  Man  cannot  have  his  life 
reduced  to  a  point  where  it  is  too  definite  to  suit 
him.  He  would  be  glad  to  know  in  advance 
just  what  was  in  store  for  him.  Not  so  a  woman — 
any  definite  plan  of  life  would  bore  her  to  death. 
And  we  make  the  mistake,  I  think,  of  assuming 
that  a  man  who  can  make  plain  sailing  for  the  wife 
of  his  bosom,  and  who  can  do  the  most  toward 
reducing  life's  problem  to  an  exact  science,  enters 
the  list  of  suitors  well  equipped  for  the  contest. 
No,  my  dear  Herkimer,  that  isn't  the  way  to  win. 
Devotion    in    exaggeration,  neglect   by  wholesale, 


56  MISS  BRITTON'S  ROMANCE. 

more  or  less  mystery,  and  our  adorable  sister  can 
imagine  things  as  beautiful  and  unmeaning  as  the 
frost  etchings  on  yonder  window  pane,  and  these 
she  undoubtedly  prefers  to  such  accurate  and  pro- 
saic pictures  as  are  the  outcome  of  a  union  with  a 
man  of  regular  habits,  a  good  digestion  and  a  log- 
ical mind.'  " 

"  Poor  Jack,"  said  King,  tenderly,  "  he  was  very 
funny  at  times.  And  yet  we  won't  quarrel — in  fact 
we  can't — with  his  odd  notions,  for  it  must  be 
remembered  that  he  had  twice  received  the  mitten. 
You  remember  what  Holmes  says — that  when  the 
tide  is  very  low  it  is  possible  to  decipher  the  in- 
scriptions on  the  Dighton  rocks.  Well,  the  tide 
was  very  low  with  Jack  on  that  gusty  winter's 
evening  when  he  told  me  of  his  love  and  his 
repeated  rejections,  and  essayed  to  analyze  the 
feminine  mind.  The  scars  upon  his  heart,  which 
he  then  revealed,  are  not  visible,  I  assure  you, 
when  the  stream  is  full  and  flows  freely  to  the  sea." 

At  this  point  King  became  silent  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  hummed  in  a  rich  mellow  baritone  a  few 
bars  of  "Sweet  Flower,  Impart."  Resuming  his 
narrative,  shortly,  he  concluded  thus  : 


MISS  BRITTON'S  ROMANCE.  57 

"  Last  Christmas  afternoon  there  was  a  great 
merrymaking  at  'Squire  Britton's  house  in  the  out- 
skirts of  New  Haven.  There  were  present  sons, 
daughters,  nephews  and  nieces,  with  their  col- 
lective progeny.  The  day  was  glorious  ;  '  the 
Christmas  sun  was  shining  and  the  Christmas  bells 
were  ringing  far  and  near.'  About  four  o'clock 
Miss  Britton  was  presiding  over  a  rehearsal  in  a 
large  front  room  upstairs.  A  series  of  charades 
were  contemplated  for  the  evening  and  she  was 
putting  the  children  through  their  final  paces  pre- 
paratory to  their  appearance  at  night.  One  of  the 
little  ones  who  was  perched  in  the  broad  window 
seat,  awaiting  her  cue,  espied  in  the  distance  a  man 
making  his  uncertain  way  down  the  slippery  road. 
With  her  alternate  outbursts  of  terror  and  amuse- 
ment as  the  jaded  and  shabby  stranger  staggered 
along  the  road,  the  little  miss  soon  attracted  her 
aunt  Edith  to  the  window.  Miss  Britton  peered 
fixedly  at  the  unkempt  figure  which  by  this  time 
had  reached  the  avenue  leading  to  the  house. 
Something  in  the  man's  mien  as  he  came  up  the 
walk  caused  her  to  grow  pale,  and  firmly  enjoining 


58  MISS  BRITTON'S  ROMANCE. 

the  children  not  to  follow  her,  she  passed  quickly 
down-stairs  and  met  the  stranger  at  the  door.  He 
was  ushered  into  the  kitchen,  where  he  was  fed  and 
warmed.  At  nightfall,  when  his  drunken  stupor 
had  somewhat  passed  away,  Miss  Britton  let  the 
visitor  out  at  the  side  door,  and  giving  him  a  bank 
note,  exacted  a  promise  that  he  would  go  away. 
From  a  window  in  her  own  room  she  watched  his 
departure.  The  moon  had  risen,  and  the  encrusted 
snow  glistened  and  crunched  beneath  his  steps  as 
he  walked  on  and  disappeared  in  the  distance. 
Two  tears — only  two — stole  down  Miss  Britton's 
cheeks.  She  thought  of  the  unfortunate  wanderer 
plodding  over  the  slippery  road  to  some  adjacent 
town,  and  as  she  listened  to  the  merriment  that 
pervaded  the  house  like  an  aroma,  she  sighed  and 
pondered  on  the  widely  differing  conditions  of 
God's  creatures  that  Christmas  night.  Then  she 
dried  her  eyes,  and,  with  a  smile  of  resignation  on 
her  lips,  she  mingled  with  the  gleeful  throng  below. " 
"Well,  that  is  the  whole  story,"  said  King,  with 
a  sigh.  "What  follows  you  have  suspected,  of 
course.     In  a  little  while  it  came  to  be  understood 


MISS  BRITTON' S  ROMANCE.  59 

in  New  Haven  that  Perkins  had  returned  and  had 
gone  away  again  forever.  With  all  the  varying 
degrees  of  sympathy  and  the  myriad  of  other 
emotions  which  do  credit  to  the  human  heart,  it 
was  further  understood,  although  never  betrayed 
by  word  or  look  in  her  presence,  that  Miss  Britton 
had  had  her  romance  and  that  its  end  had  come." 

"Going  to  be  here  long  ?  "  asked  my  companion 
after  a  brief  pause. 

"A  week  or  two,"  I  returned. 

"That's  good;  we  shall  become  better  ac- 
quainted, as  I  intend  to  stay  here  a  fortnight  at 
least.  Mrs.  King  will  be  glad  to  know  you.  We 
will  make  up  a  party  if  you  like  and  climb  Mount 
Lafayette  to-morrow.  I'll  have  to  go  in  now,"  he 
said,  consulting  his  watch,  "or  Mrs.  King  will  be 
inconsolable." 

We  shook  hands,  and  afterward,  up  in  my  room 
under  the  eaves,  as  I  smoked  innumerable  cigars 
and  gazed  up  into  the  star-enstudded  heavens  until 
long  after  midnight,  I  thought  a  great  deal  about 
Miss  Britton  and  "her  romance."  The  next 
morning,  after  breakfast,  when  I  went  out  to  note 


60  MISS  BRITTON'S  ROMANCE. 

the  arrivals  from  Littleton,  everybody,  including 
Miss  Britton,  with  the  exception  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
King,  was  on  the  piazza.  I  looked  for  the  Kings 
everywhere,  but  found  them  not.  My  search, 
however,  was  cut  short  by  the  arrival  of  the  stage, 
which  was  crowded.  Among  the  first  to  clamber 
down  from  the  roof  of  the  lumbering  old  vehicle 
was  Curtis  Dodge,  a  banker  in  one  of  the  in- 
terior cities  of  New  York.  I  had  known  him 
several  years,  and  was  about  to  accost  him,  when, 
to  my  horror,  he  seized  the  patient  mourner  for 
the  lapses  of  Perkins  and  imprinted  kiss  after  kiss 
upon  her  smiling  face,  only  ceasing  when  she  ex- 
postulated, saying: 

"Why,  Curtis!  Consider  where  we  are  and 
all  the  people  !" 

Mr.  Dodge  laughed  merrily,  and  espying  me  he 
came  up  and  nearly  wrung  my  hand  off.  In 
another  minute  I  was  bowing  confusedly  before 
my  heroine  of  the  romance,  to  whom  I  had  sud- 
denly been  presented. 

"Mrs.  Dodge,"  said  my  friend,  "has  been 
roaming    about    these  hills  for    a   month    await- 


MISS  BKITTON'S  ROMANCE.  61 

ing  my  arrival.  We  are  building  a  little  railroad 
from " 

"Mrs.  Dodge!"  I  exclaimed,  interrupting 
him. 

"Yes,  this  is  she,"  he  replied.  "Thought  I 
wasn't  married,  eh  ?  Oh,  yes,  we  have  been  wedded 
these  twenty  years,  and  one  of  our  three  boys  is 
already  in  college  at  Cambridge." 

And  thus  Miss  Britton,  with  her  pathetic  ro- 
mance, the  erring  and  dissolute  Perkins,  and  the 
imagined  sweetness  of  childish  laughter  reverbera- 
ting through  the  rooms  of  the  mythical  farm- 
house at  Christmas-tide,  were  swept  into  the  limbo 
of  uncreated  things,  where  lie  buried  forever  my 
unspoken  eloquence,  my  unpainted  pictures  and 
my  songs  unsung. 

I  went  again  in  quest  of  Herkimer  King,  and  as 
I  searched  for  him  in  vain  my  mind  was  active.  I 
am  not  too  familiar  with  the  Scriptures,  but  I 
remembered  something  contained  in  them,  and  I 
fully  accepted  the  proposition  that  all  men  are  lia 
— liable  to  indulge  their  propensity  for  romancing. 
Presently  there  arose  the  sound  of  carriage-wheels 


62  MISS   MUTTON' S  ROMANCE. 

and  Mrs.  King  came  bowling  up  the  road.  Toss- 
ing the  reins  to  an  attendant,  who  led  away  her 
foaming  horse,  she  sprang  lightly  upon  the  piazza, 
and  opened  up  a  lively  dialogue  with  a  gentleman 
who  had  sprained  his  wrist  by  falling  from  his 
horse  in  coming  down  the  mountain  drive.  Her 
cheeks  were  ruddy,  her  eyes  were  flashing  and  her 
white  teeth  glistened  in  striking  contrast  with  the 
ruby  of  her  lips.  1  walked  over  to  where  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Dodge  were  sitting,  and  said  carelessly,  ad- 
dressing the  latter:  "This  Mr.  King — he  is  a 
friend  of  yours,  I  believe." 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  replied,  "anew  friend.  The 
Kings  were  at  the  Crawford  House  for  a  week,  and 
I  took  that  delightful  creature  yonder  quite  to  my 
heart.  I  found  her  husband  very  entertaining,  too, 
and  then  I  am  indebted  to  him  for  many  little 
favors.  He  had  the  knack  of  eloquently  recom- 
mending charming  books  which  I  had  not  read, 
and  then  he  would  produce  them  for  me  to  read." 

"What  is  his  business?  "  I  pursued. 

"Oh,  he  has  no  business — that  is,  not  in  the 
sense   that   husband   has.       He    is  an    artist   and 


MISS  BRITTON'S  ROMANCE.  63 

makes  for  the  newspapers  pictures  which,  he  says, 
are  a  long  way  after  Du  Maurier." 

"Ah,  indeed,"  I  returned  dryly.  Then  after  a 
pause  I  added  :  "Supposing  you  introduce  me  to 
Mrs.  King.  Her  husband  said  she  would  be  glad 
to  know  me." 

Mrs.  Dodge  quickly  assented,  and  I  was  pre- 
sented accordingly.  After  a  spirited  exchange  of 
badinage  between  Mr.  Dodge  and  Mrs.  King,  I 
addressed  myself  to  the  latter,  saying:  "And 
Mr.   King — where  is  he  this  morning  ?  " 

"  Gone  back  to  New  York,"  replied  his  vivacious 
wife.  "Isn't  it  too  bad?  But  his  time  was  up 
yesterday,  and  he  is  needed  at  the  office.  Such 
a  fellow  as  he  is,  too,  a  perfect  athlete.  He  is 
going  to  walk  from  Littleton  to  Plymouth  and  take 
train  from  there.  It  was  only  under  protest  that  he 
would  permit  me  to  drive  him  part  of  the  way." 

"I  trust  you  left  him  'in  good  form,'  Mrs. 
King.  That,  I  believe,  is  one  of  the  phrases 
which  finds  favor  in  pedestrianic  circles,"  said  I. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  she  replied  gaily,  "in  excellent 
form.     As  he  swung  down  the  road  he  was  every 


64  MISS  BRITTON'S  ROMANCE. 

inch  a  King."     Then  laughing,   she   added,   with 
just  a  hint  of  pathos  in  her  velvety  voice:   "The 
mowers  ceased  their  labors  and  leaned  upon  their 
scythes,  to  listen,  as  he  went  singing  afield, 
'  All  in  the  rosy  morning.' : 


AN  EVENING  REVERIE. 


AN  EVENING  REVERIE. 

lyiND  reader,  did  you  ever  steal  away  from 
everybody  and  everything,  and,  seeking  your 
library,  sit  down  in  the  coming  twilight  before  a 
glowing  grate  ?  If  you  have,  you  will  sympathize 
fully  with  me  in  that  sweet  inertia  that  comes  over 
one  as  he  sits  thus  and  puffs  the  much  abused  but 
ever  soothing  weed,  of  which  his  Satanic  majesty  is 
said  to  have  sown  the  germ.  If  you  have  never 
done  so,  listen  and  you  may  sit  by  me.  The 
cheerful  fire  awakens  pleasant  memories,  and  the 
fragrant  tobacco  induces  a  mellowness  of  mind 
almost  ecstatic.  When  the  moon's  soft  beams  fall 
beside  you,  as  the  evening  advances,  as  was  the  case 
with  me  last  night,  there  is  little  else  attainable  in 
this  world  worth  wishing  for.  You  may  not  see 
the  pictures  on  the  wall,  but  you  feel  their  pres- 
ence. You  realize  that  Beatrice  Cenci  regards  you 
kindly  as  you  puff  the  smoke  rings  upward.  And 
though  Washington  and  his  small  band  of  fol- 
lowers, who  are  crossing  the  Delaware — in  a  steel 


68  AN  EVENING  REVERIE. 

engraving — over  behind  you,  are  invisible  as  you 
gaze  into  the  fire,  you  know  that  they  are  dividing 
their    attention    between    the   guidance   of   their 
frail  craft  on  its    perilous   journey  and  your  airy 
musings.    There  are  many  other  pictures  adorning 
the  walls,  and  you  experience   that  quiet  satisfac- 
tion inseparable  from  being  in  delightful  company. 
On    your  right    sit    Washington    Irving   and  his 
friends,  and  on  your  left  Shakespeare  and  his  con- 
temporaries, both  groups  indulging  in  achat  which 
you  would  give  half  your    life — possibly  that  half 
you  are  done  with — to  have    heard.     The  busts  of 
Burns,  of  Scott  and  Byron  surmount  the  mantel- 
piece; a  pair   of  Rogers'  groups  are  near  at  hand, 
and,  finally,  there  are  those  wonderful  entertainers, 
the  books  on  your  library  shelves.     And  if  Wash- 
ington and    his  followers   are  mute;  if  Beatrice  is 
content  to  entrance    the  eye  without   adding  the 
music  of    her    voice  ;  if  Irving,   Shakespeare  and 
their  respective  associates  say  nothing  to  you,  and 
Burns,  Scott  and  Byron   deign  not  to  relax  their 
set  features  for  your  instruction,  what  recks  it  ?  The 
books  will  talk  to   you  as  men  can  never  speak. 


AN  EVENING  REVERIE.  69 

You  sit  within  an  enchanted  circle,  and  have  only 
to  rise,  step  forward  two  strides,  and,  mirabile 
dicta!  you  may  commune  with  Landor,  with 
Goethe,  Shakespeare,  Plutarch,  Balzac,  or  any  of 
the  others  who  have  contributed  their  wisdom  for 
the  benefit  of  mankind,  from  wise  Confucius  to 
dainty,  bewitching  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 

I  was  sitting  thus  last  evening,  when  I  heard  a 
voice  so  wondrously  modulated  and  sweet  that  I 
fancied,  for  the  instant  which  it  required  for  me  to 
emerge  from  my  reverie,  that  Beatrice  had  surely 
spoken,  and  the  voice  inquired,  "  May  I  come 
in?"  Before  I  could  say  "Yes,"  this  practical 
observation  followed:  "  Why,  John,  you  great 
goose,  why  don't  you  light  the  gas  ?  It  is  as 
dark  as  a  pocket  here " ;  saying  which,  my 
bonny  wife  approached  me,  and  brushed  back 
my  hair  with  the  same  lingering  tenderness 
with  which  she  fondled  me  many  years  ago, 
when  we  were  in  the  heyday  of  our  honey- 
moon. We  are  lovers  still,  Mary  and  I — we 
must  always  be.  Adapted  to  each  other  by 
temperament,  education  and  general   tendencies, 


70  AN  E  VENING  RE  VERIE. 

our  love  has  grown  with  our  years  and  strengthened 
with  our  strength.  Behold  in  us  the  happiest 
couple  in  Christendom!  Not  that  we  are  by  any 
means  alike  ;  oh,  no!  Mary  is  shrewd,  practical — 
in  fact,  she  is  common  sense  personified.  She 
makes  good  bargains,  takes  a  wholesome  view  of 
life,  and  does  good  to  all  about  her  as  naturally 
and  easily  as  the  sun  shines  or  the  wind  blows.  I 
am  a  bit  of  a  dreamer,  I  am  given  to  the  advocacy 
of  ideas  which  I  am  so  often  convinced  are  impracti- 
cable that  I  have  but  little  faith  in  my  own  views  ; 
I  am  easily  imposed  upon  in  numerous  ways,  and, 
except  at  rare  intervals,  I  go  about  my  business 
feeling,  with  Meredith,  that  life  is  not  altogether 
what  we  planned  it  out.  As  you  may  judge,  Mary 
is  a  perfect  balance  for  me.  Without  her  I  should 
be  as  nothing,  but  together  we  are  a  steady  going 
couple,  who  admire  each  other's  qualities,  and  fall 
more  and  more  deeply  in  love  as  we  grow  older; 
for  in  spite  of  our  differing  views  we  sympathize 
fully  on  all  matters  of  importance  to  our  own  and 
the  well  being  of  those  near  and  dear  to  us. 

I  regret  that    I  have  not   time  to   tell   you  all 


AN  EVENING  REVERIE.  71 

about  ourselves,  and  give  an  episode  here  and  there 
in  our  married  life.  Suffice  it  that  we  were  friends 
at  first,  lovers  betimes,  and  "married  folk"  at  last. 
I  would  like,  moreover,  to  tell  you  what  we  were 
talking  about  last  evening,  but  Mary  would  not 
approve  of  it,  and  as  usual  I  yield  to  her  better 
judgment.  I  am  so  happy  under  circumstances 
peculiarly  adapted  to  my  eccentric  though  not 
altogether  sunless  nature,  that  I  would  communi- 
cate my  thoughts  and  the  pretty  things  my  wife 
and  I  say  to  each  other  to  the  whole  world.  But 
Mary  says  the  world  would  laugh  at  us,  and  very 
likely  she  is  right,  so  I  shall  spare  you  a  report  of 
our  conversation. 

But  I  may  safely  tell  you  what  was  occupying 
my  mind  when  Mary  came  to  sit  by  me.  I  was 
thinking  of  our  early  love  ;  of  how  we  were  associ- 
ated together  in  a  pretty  Massachusetts  village, 
and  of  our  increasing  fondness  for  each  other  as 
we  approached  that  period  which  by  a  polite  fiction 
is  called  years  of  discretion.  She  grew  to  be 
delicate  in  health  as  she  attained  her  eighteenth 
year,  and  fears  were  entertained  that  she  would  die 


72  AN  EVENING  REVERIE. 

of  consumption,  as  her  mother  had  done.  Her 
physician  prescribed  a  change  of  air,  and  her 
father  took  her  abroad.  Our  parting  was  very  sad, 
for  she  was  ill  and  strangely  whimsical.  "  I  shall 
die  in  some  strange  land,  John,'"  she  said,  "  and 
shall  never  see  you  again."  And  then  she  wept 
softly,  and  my  own  eyes  were  not  wholly  dry.  I 
had  just  graduated  at  the  bar,  and  went  to  Boston 
to  practice  my  profession  in  her  absence.  During 
the  two  years  which  followed  I  was  moderately 
successful,  but  I  must  confess  that  I  was  not  happy. 
Mary's  letters  and  those  from  her  father  were  not 
encouraging,  but  I  was  young  and  brave  hearted. 
So  I  hoped  for  the  best,  and,  if  sometimes  I  lost 
interest  in  my  law  books,  and  my  mind  wandered 
to  the  sequestered  village  where  I  had  met  my 
love,  and  I  fell  to  thinking  fondly  of  green 
lanes  and  of  her  who  used  to  be  my  companion 
amid  scenes  of  quiet  loveliness,  I  came  back  to  my- 
self shortly  and  resumed  the  duties  of  my  work-a- 
day  life.  I  cannot  say  that  I  thought  of  the 
country  with  a  feeling  of  regret.  I  only  dwelt  on 
it  because  it  suggested  the  happiest  hours  of  my 


AN  E  VENING  RE  VERIE.  73 

life — my  three  years  as  a  student  in  Judge  Bas- 
com's  office.  Although  born  in  the  country  I  was 
a  town  man  by  adoption  and  instinct,  and  though 
visiting  the  country  at  favorable  seasons  of  the  year 
and  enjoying  these  changes  exceedingly,  I  admired 
the  rural  scenery  at  certain  other  periods  some- 
thing after  the  manner  in  which  that  very  funny 
man  admired  the  sea,  who,  after  sailing  around 
Cape   Horn,  ejaculated  in  homely  rhyme  : 

"  Oh  !    I  love  the  sea,  as  I've  said  before, 
But  I  love  it  best  when  seen  from  shore." 

Well,  Mary  came  home  at  last  and  we  were  mar- 
ried. How  well  I  remember  that  golden  August 
day — the  1 7th.  She  had  entirely  recovered  her 
health,  and,  oh,  how  beautiful  she  was !  I  remem- 
ber that  she  seemed  to  me  as  an  angel,  and  even 
at  the  altar  my  better  nature  rebelled  at  the  idea  of 
linking  her  pure  life  with  my  imperfect  one,  and 
I  had  serious  intentions  of  forbidding  the  bans. 
But  I  was  selfish,  as  all  men  are,  and,  ignoring  my 
own  unworthiness,  I  permitted  the  ceremony  to  go 
forward.  As  we  emerged  from  the  church,  followed 
by  the  worthy  villagers,  the  birds  sang  joyously, 


74  AN  EVENING  REVERIE. 

and  I  was  very,  very  happy.  I  felt  that  God  had 
indeed  blessed  me  beyond  my  deserts,  but  I  kept 
my  emotion  to  myself.  A  week  later,  deferring  to 
my  whimsical  tendencies,  and  intuitively  fathoming 
my  unfitness  for  the  country,  Mary  announced  one 
morning  her  preference  for  the  town,  and  asked 
me  as  a  favor  to  her  that  we  go  at  once  to  Boston. 
Her  father  accompanied  us,  but  he  passed  away 
after  a  few  years.  He  blessed  us  with  his  dying 
breath,  and  smilingly  went  forth  into  the  great  here- 
after. How  the  past  came  back  to  me  last  night 
as  I  sat  dreaming  my  day  dreams  in  the  mingled 
moon  and  fire  light !  I  was  almost  a  poet  then, 
and  if  a  diviner  hand  had  not  swept  the  lyre  to  the 
same  purpose,  I  belive  I  could  have  written  some- 
thing beautiful  on  the  "  Pleasures  of  Memory." 

"Will  I  let  the  children  come  up  ?"  inquired 
Biddy,  from  the  dining-room. 

The  children  finally  come  up.  There  are  three 
of  them — John,  nine  years  old;  Henry,  seven,  and 
Mamie,  three.  I  object  to  having  the  gas  lighted 
when  Mary  urges  its  ignition.  Behold  me  victori- 
ous in  the  dimly  lighted  room  !    On  a  low  stool  at 


AN  E  VENING  RE  VERIE.  75 

my  side  sits  Mary,  fairer,  sweeter  than  the  flowers — 
those  voiceless,  yet  earnest  and  convincing  preach- 
ers. On  one  knee  sits  John,  on  the  other  Henry, 
while  Mamie  clings  to  my  neck,  and  nestles  her 
sunny  head  upon  my  shoulder.  Verily  I  would  do 
without  the  gaslight  always,  if  only  to  have  the 
children  sit  so  closely  and  seem  to  place  themselves 
under  my  protection  without  reserve — to  have  them 
look  up  to  me  with  that  aspect  of  perfect  trust 
which  never  characterizes  my  children  except  when 
darkness  is  around  us.  Of  course  we  must  tell  them 
stories,  so  Mary  and  I  alternate  as  the  inventors  of 
little  romances,  such  as  children  like.  She  relates 
tales  of  knights  and  great  achievements,  and  I  tell 
them  of  the  grotesque  and  fanciful.  And  how 
silent  the  little  ones  are  as  Mary  weaves  her  pretty 
tales  of  chivalrous  men  and  deeds.  How  merrily 
they  laugh  when  I  narrate  the  mythical  adven- 
tures of  impossible  boys  and  girls.  We  are  very 
happy,  I  can  tell  you.  Then  follows  song  after 
song,  with  very  perfect  result,  for  Mary's  voice, 
like  her  every  other  attribute,  is  sweet  and  winning, 
and  the  boys  are  making  good  headway  with  their 


76  AN  E  VENING  RE  VERIE. 

music.  Mamie  and  I  are  the  only  weak  ones  in 
our  home  quintette,  she  being  too  young  to  learn 
the  songs  the  boys  are  taught  at  school,  and  I 
being  ambitious  to  sing  the  right  words  to  the 
wrong  tune,  without  making  discord,  and  always 
failing. 

As  the  evening  drew  on  we  purposed  to  close 
our  delightful  session  with  "Hold  the  Fort," 
something  perfectly  familiar  to  all  of  us,  even  to 
Mamie.  The  first  verse  seemed  to  limp  a  little, 
and  I  looked  inquiringly  at  Mary,  but  her  glance 
of  encouragement  reassured  me,  and  I  sang  on 
right  sturdily  thenceforward.  It  was  during  the 
progress  of  the  second  stanza  that  we  discovered 
the  cause  of  the  inharmony — Mamie  was  singing 
"Little  Brown  Jug,  You  and  Me."  At  this  we 
laughed  heartily,  and  as  our  voices  died  away  a 
sort  of  blindness  stole  upon  me.  My  wife's  sweet 
face  seemed  to  fade  from  sight,  then  the  children 
began  to  recede  from  view,  at  last  dissolving  alto- 
gether, and,  starting  up,  I  stood  alone.  The  fire 
was  nearly  dead,  there  were  no  pictures  on  the 
wall,  there  were  no  copies  of  Shakespeare,  Plutarch, 


AN  EVENING  REVERIE.  77 

Goethe — or  of  anybody  except  Coke  and  Black- 
stone,  and  other  legal  lights,  on  the  single  shelf 
above  the  fireplace.  My  vision  had  passed  away, 
and  again  I  was  an  old  bachelor  lawyer — the  self- 
same gray  old  John  Marble,  whom  my  brethren 
who  congregate  at  the  courthouse  know  so  well, 
and,  no  doubt,  depreciate,  were  the  truth  known. 
I  walked  stiffly  to  the  window,  for  my  limbs  are  no 
longer  young,  and  looking  out  I  beheld  the  sleep- 
ing city  bathed  in  radiant  light.  The  cathedral 
bells  had  just  rung  out  the  midnight  hour.  Turn- 
ing, I  marked  that  the  moon's  soft  beams  fell 
across  the  oaken  floor,  as  I  had  seen  them  rest 
upon  the  richly  tinted  carpet  of  my  library,  and 
a  pain  like  an  unexpected  twinge  from  an  old 
sprain  shook  me,  for  I  knew  that  the  moonbeams 
lighting  my  dingy  room  rested  also  on  a  grave  in 
a  country  church  yard  not  far  remote.  They  have 
rested  there  through  thirty  years — above  my  Mary's 
dust.  John  and  Henry  and  Mamie — God  bless 
you,  my  dream  children! — were  never  born,  but 
since  God  willed  it  so,  I  thank  Him  as  I  brush 
away  an  old  man's  foolish  tears. 


ESTHER  ROMAINE. 


ESTHER  ROMAINE. 

AM  what  the  world  calls  "an  oldish  fellow"; 
but  the  boy  never  dies  out  of  some  natures, 
and  mine  is  such  an  one.  I  am  as  fond  of  reading 
sentimental  stories,  pretty  little  poems,  and  sad, 
weird  novels,  of  listening  to  the  morning  songs  of 
the  birds  and  of  plucking  wild  flowers  in  the  fields, 
as  I  was  years  ago,  when  in  the  heyday  of  my 
youth  I  was,  like  my  fellows,  more  or  less  roman- 
tic. Albeit  the  winters  have  drifted  "like  flakes 
of  snow,  and  the  summers  like  buds  between," 
until  I  sometimes  feel,  with  Ruskin,  that  it  is  a 
little  saddening  to  watch  the  golden  sunsets,  the 
sun  goes  down  so  fast,  yet  am  I  young  in  all  but 
outward  form  and  semblance.  I  make  little  pil- 
grimages when  the  summer  has  fled,  to  the  no 
great  neglect  of  my  legal  business,  to  watch  the 
changing  colors  of  the  forest  trees,  and  sometimes, 
once  in  a  few  years,  I  visit  New  York,  and  pass  a 
sunny  autumn  day  at  Central  Park.  No  words  at 
the  command  of  a  superannuated  old  lawyer,  like 


82  ESTHER  ROMAINE. 

the  writer,  can  properly  describe  the  beauties  of 
that  marvel  of  city  gardening  when  the  frost  has 
put  its  imprint  on  the  myriad  of  trees  and  shrubs. 
A  lovely  spot,  to  all  admirers  of  art  in  nature,  at 
any  time,  Central  Park  becomes  indescribably  cap- 
tivating when  its  plumage  has  changed  from  the 
emerald  of  spring  and  summer,  and  has  assumed 
the  numberless  tints  of  the  rainbow.  To  wander 
on,  heedless  of  whither  my  footsteps  tend,  and 
note  this  specimen  of  gorgeous  scarlet,  that  clump 
of  golden  leaves,  and  the  ever  recurring  browns, 
silvers,  purples  and  yellows,  is  my  delight.  And 
when  the  sun  shines  brightly  and  the  birds  sing 
their  melancholy  songs — it  always  seems  to  me  as 
if  they  sing  in  unison  with  nature  ;  merrily  when 
she  is  reviving,  serenely  and  with  mellowness  in 
the  days  of  her  summer  opulence,  and  sadly  in  the 
hours  of  her  decay — I  feel  as  if  I  had  come  into 
possession  of  my  Spanish  castles,  and  in  heart,  at 
least,  I  am  a  boy  again. 

I  recall,  at  this  moment,  a  visit  made  to  Central 
Park  two  years  ago.  I  am  not  positive  whether  it 
was  in  the   last  days  of  October,  or  in  the  first  of 


ESTHER  ROMAINE.  83 

November.  Suffice  it  that  the  weather  was  most 
beautiful.  I  had  strolled  about  until  I  was  weary 
and  footsore,  and  had  stopped  to  rest  on  the  bridge 
overlooking  the  lake.  As  you  will  remember, 
this  bridge  is  reached  from  the  Mall  by  crossing 
the  Drive,  and  one  may  loiter  there  and  see  all 
those  who  pass  in  carriages.  There  were  but  few 
people  visible  as  I  leaned  against  the  rail  and  sur- 
veyed the  lovely  scene  about  me.  The  sun  was 
sinking  rapidly  below  a  bank  of  gray,  cold  look- 
ing clouds,  a  chilling  wind  was  springing  up,  and 
I  was  about  buttoning  my  coat  more  firmly  around 
me  and  setting  out  for  the  city,  when  I  noticed  a 
rather  distinguished  looking  gentleman  down  by 
the  lake.  He  was,  perhaps,  five  and  thirty  years 
of  age,  and  was  amusing  himself  by  throwing 
pebbles  out  into  the  wrinkled  waters.  He  was  a 
handsome  fellow,  smoothly  shaven  and  tastefully 
dressed,  though  something  about  the  cut  of  his 
attire  persuaded  me  that  it  was  not  of  American 
manufacture.  I  set  him  down  in  my  mind  as  an 
English  tourist,  and  as  he  was  now  coming  toward 
me  I  prepared  to   scrutinize    him    more   closely. 


84  ESTHER  ROMAINE. 

Just  as  he  was  mounting  the  steps  which  led  to 
where  I  was  standing,  the  rumbling  of  wheels 
diverted  my  attention,  and  I  turned  my  gaze  in 
the  opposite  direction.  Presently,  a  lady  and 
gentleman  came  dashing  by  behind  a  pair  of  high 
stepping  horses.  From  the  instant  the  carriage 
came  within  sight  until  it  disappeared  my  eyes 
rested  on  the  lady.  To  say  that  she  was  beautiful 
beyond  the  power  of  this  hand  to  express,  scarcely 
dismisses  the  subject.  I  never  saw,  to  my  recollec- 
tion, so  faultless  a  pair  of  shoulders.  Her  head, 
too,  was  a  marvel  of  loveliness.  There  was  a  poise 
about  it  which  enhanced  the  sweetness  of  a  face 
reminding  me  of  Lucca's,  and  the  rich  locks  of 
hair  which  escaped  from  control  with  the  rapid 
pace,  were  as  those  of  Dante's  Beatrice — like 
sheaves  of  gathered  sunshine.  I  stood  spellbound,  as 
if  an  angel  had  passed  my  way.  For  a  moment 
I  scarcely  breathed,  counting  it  wrong  to  inhale  the 
air,  hallowed  as  I  thought  it,  by  a  recent  presence 
bordering  on  the  divine. 

"  Lovely  woman,  isn't  she  ?  "  came  from  beside 
me,  and  as  soon  as  I  could  recover  my  equanimity 


ESTHER  ROMAINE.  85 

I  turned,  and  meeting  the  eyes  of  the  pebble  caster, 
I  replied  : 

"  Indeed,  sir,  you  may  well  say  so.  Like  most 
men  of  my  years,  I  have  my  sweet  and  bitter  mem- 
ories; I  have  castles  of  gold  and  cedar,  and  im- 
mense domains  in  dreamland,  through  which  flow 
silver  rivers.  My  castles  overlook  lawns  of  peren- 
nial green,  and  the  air  is  fragrant  with  the  incense 
of  orange  blossoms  and  myrrh.  Sitting  at  my 
windows  at  eventide,  I  see  in  the  luminous  atmos- 
phere faces  of  wondrous  beauty,  but  none  fairer 
or  more  angelic  than  hers.  A  lovely  woman, 
most  assuredly." 

"  I  suppose,  of  course,  you  know  her  ?"  he  re- 
turned. 

"  I  haven't  that  honor.  I  wish  1  had,"  I  said. 
"  Do  you  know  her?"  I  inquired. 

My  companion  gave  a  long  whistle,  and  finally 
answered  abruptly:  "Yes,  I  do  know  her;  and 
she  has  a  history,  too  ;  but  it  is  not  much  known, 
nor  of  particular  interest  to  strangers.  Let  it  pass. 
But,"  he  added,  in  a  brisker  vein,  "  I  am  sur- 
prised, if  you  are  a  New  Yorker,  that  you  do  not 
know  the  brilliant  Mrs.  Vaughn. " 


86  ESTHER  ROMAINE. 

"  I  am  not  a  New  Yorker,"  I  rejoined.  "  I  live 
in  Boston,  and  have  never  heard  of  Mrs.  Vaughn, 
I  assure  you. " 

"Well,  you  have  of  her  husband,  surely,"  my 
entertaining  friend  resumed.  "  She  is  the  wife  of 
Howard  Vaughn,  the  capitalist — Vaughn,  Giddings 
&  Gluck,  the  Broad  street  bankers.  Vaughn  is  a 
fine  fellow,  I  think,  though  I  have  abundant  reason 
to  hate  him  cordially.  But  I  respect  the  man  and 
ignore  my  personal  animosity.  He  likes  good 
horses,  good  wine  and  good  living,  but  he  is  a 
man  of  cultivation,  also.  You  may  remember  him 
as  the  companion  of  George  Kennan,  who  was 
sent  out  to  construct  an  overland  line  of  telegraph 
in  northern  Siberia,  to  connect  the  exisiting  lines 
in  British  Columbia  with  the  established  Russian 
lines  on  the  Asiatic  Coast,  some  years  ago,  and 
which  was  abandoned  with  the  unexpected  success 
of  the  second  Atlantic  cable.  Vaughn  afterward 
wrote  a  book  reciting  his  experiences  in  Siberia 
—  'Snow  Shoes  and  Sledges,'  I  think  was  its 
title.  Oh,  yes  !  he  is  a  clever  fellow  ;  he  writes 
articles  for  the  daily  papers  on  finance,   essays  on 


ESTHER  ROMAINE.  87 

social  and  literary  themes  for  the  magazines,  and 
a  poem  now  and  then  so  sweet  and  pathetic  that 
you  would  imagine  its  author  to  be  some  pastoral 
queen  who  had  never  wandered  from  the  shaded 
lanes  and  quiet  forests  of  her  country  home  long 
enough  to  even  hear  the  echo  of  a  city's  hum  and 
bustle." 

My  companion  subsided,  and  as  we  had  begun 
walking  while  he  was  speaking,  he  fell  to  cutting 
at  the  bushes  with  his  cane,  and  seemed  to  be 
preoccupied.  I  had  become  greatly  interested  in 
his  remarks,  and  expressing  my  thanks  for  the 
confidences  he  had  communicated,  I  intimated 
that  I  should  be  glad  to  know  what  reasons  he  had 
for  hating  so  gifted  a  man  as  Mr.  Vaughn.  But 
my  words  seemed  to  be  utterly  lost  upon  him. 
Evidently  his  mind  was  elsewhere.  We  walked  on 
in  silence  for  some  minutes  when  my  friend  asked 
abruptly  : 

"Did  you  notice  Vaughn  at  all  ?" 

I  replied  that  I  did  not  ;  that  my  attention  was 
so  much  engrossed  by  the  lady  and  her  marvelous 
beauty  that  I  had  not  bestowed  so  much  as  a 
glance  on  her  husband. 


88  ESTHER  KOMAINE. 

"I  am  sorry,"  continued  my  companion,  "that 
you  did  not  note  him  more  closely.  He  is  a  won- 
derful man,  possessed  of  a  face  which  once  seen 
can  never  be  forgotten.  Born  in  the  country,  he 
has  a  nature  so  informed  by  the  idyllic  surround- 
ings of  his  childhood  that  his  manner  is  almost 
womanly  in  its  sweetness.  Contact  with  the 
world  in  later  years  has  polished  him  outwardly 
to  the  last  degree,  so  that,  take  him  all  in  all,  he  is 
really  a  most  remarkable  specimen  of  simplicity, 
wordly  wisdom,  large  heartedness,  culture  and 
affection  delightfully  blended." 

We  had  now  reached  the  Exit,  and  without 
ceremony  my  friend  called  a  coupe  and  plunged 
into  it.  I  was  moving  off,  not  a  little  perplexed  at 
all  I  had  heard  and  his  unceremonious  manner  of 
quitting  me,  and  had  just  signaled  a  Fourth  avenue 
car,  when  a  carriage  stopped  beside  me,  and  a 
voice  I  recognized  at  once  said  : 

"  I  suppose  you  would  like  to  hear  her  history, 
since  you  think  Mrs.  Vaughn  so  beautiful  ?" 

To  my  answer  in  the  affirmative,  the  voice  con- 
tinued :  "  Well,  come  and  dine  with  me  to-morrow 


ESTHER  ROMAINE.  89 

night,  at  the  Clarendon,  and  I  will  tell  you  about 
her." 

And  a  hand  was  put  forth  which  grasped  mine 
cordially,  as  the  speaker  concluded  :  "I  some- 
how took  a  fancy  to  you  from  the  first,  and  over 
our  coffee  and  cigars  to-morrow  evening  I  will 
tell  you  a  story  so  strange,  inexplicable  and  sad 
that  you  will  have  something  to  think  of  for  a  long 
time.  Be  at  the  Clarendon  at  seven  o'clock  sharp, 
and  ask  for  Conrad  Kirschbaum — pshaw!  not  a 
card  with  me,  just  my  luck — and  you  shall  know 
all." 

I  readily  assented,  and  my  new  acquaintance, 
falling  back  among  the  cushions  with  a  sigh,  sig- 
naled wearily  to  his  driver  to  proceed,  and  the 
carriage  passed  rapidly  down  Fifth  avenue,  quickly 
disappearing  around  a  corner. 

I  dined  with  Kirschbaum  the  next  evening  ac- 
cording to  engagement.  After  dinner  he  told  me 
the  following  singular  story  :  He  was  the  son  of 
the  Rev.  Conrad  Kirschbaum,  deceased,  of  Allen- 
town,  Pa.  In  1870  he  had  fallen  a  prey  to  a 
malarial  fever,  and  went  abroad  to  recuperate  his 


90  ESTHER  ROMAINE. 

health.  In  Paris  he  met  Miss  Esther  Romaine,  of 
Albany  ;  they  fell  in  love,  became  engaged,  and 
were  to  be  married  on  their  return  to  America. 
While  they  were  deep  in  their  plans  for  future  bliss, 
the  Commune  revolted.  The  siege  of  Paris  began 
and  progressed  without  eliciting  their  attention, 
until  one  day,  when  it  was  too  late  to  leave  the 
city  by  the  usual  methods  of  conveyance,  they 
awoke  to  a  realization  that  they  were  prisoners  in  a 
foreign  city.  From  this  point  I  will  let  Kirschbaum 
tell  his  own  story  : 

"Oh!  how  I  loved  that  girl — howl  love  her 
still.  But  that  is  not  to  the  purpose.  There  was 
only  one  way  out  of  the  city — by  balloon.  It  was 
with  no  small  difficulty  that  I  obtained  Esther's 
consent  to  leave  by  that  means,  but  she  reluctantly 
complied  at  last.  Then  I  had  no  end  of  trouble 
about  getting  a  balloon,  and  ran  the  imminent  risk 
of  being  shot  in  making  the  start.  In  a  few  days, 
however,  all  was  ready.  I  was  to  meet  Esther  at  her 
hotel  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  from  thence 
we  hoped  to  quit  Paris  before  night  had  set  in.  As 
I  was  pacing  the  floor  at  my  lodgings,  she  came  to 


ESTHER  RO MAINE,  91 

me  about  six  o'clock — an  hour  before  the  time  at 
which  I  had  agreed  to  call  for  her.  I  remonstrated 
with  her  for  jeoparding  her  life  by  coming  out-of- 
doors  before  nightfall  and  without  an  escort,  but 
she  averred  that  she  felt  so  wretched  away  from  me 
in  the  great  danger  which  threatened  us  and  she 
seemed  so  dependent  on  me  that  I  ceased  my 
chiding.  We  left  my  lodgings  about  fifteen  minutes 
before  seven,  and  between  seven  and  eight  o'clock 
we  stepped  on  board  the  balloon,  which,  when  the 
word  was  given,  shot  up  into  the  air  and  rose  to  a 
great  height.  Have  you  ever  done  any  ballooning  ? 
No  ?  Well,  it  is  a  queer  sensation  which  a  man 
feels  on  his  first  trip.  The  firm  earth  seems  to  drop 
from  beneath  you,  the  people  and  objects  below 
appear  to  be  rapidly  falling  into  space.  It  is 
impossible  at  first  to  realize  that  you  are  ascend- 
ing. It  was  a  moonlight  night  and  we  could  see 
that  we  were  passing  over  the  suburbs  of  Paris.  To 
our  rear  lay  the  vast  extent  of  the  city.  Beneath  us 
the  land,  trees,  houses  and  fields  swept  past  in 
such  rapid  succession  that  I  decided  that  I  must 
shortly  think  about  making  a  landing.     On  which 


92  ESTHER  KOMAINE. 

side  of  the  city  I  was,  I  could  not  determine,  but 
I  knew  that  at  the  terrific  rate  of  speed  at  which 
we  were  going,  I  must  descend  before  long. 
Faster  and  faster  the  now  indefinable  objects  below 
swept  past  us,  when  suddenly  the  report  of  a  rifle 
startled  me.  Breaking  from  Esther,  whose  arms 
were  around  me,  and  whose  head  rested  upon  my 
shoulder,  I  peered  over  the  side  of  the  car,  but 
could  discover  nothing.  We  were  being  fired  at, 
I  judged,  and  so  with  a  view  to  rising  higher,  and 
thus  placing  ourselves  out  of  range,  I  began  to 
empty  the  bags  of  ballast.  I  now  abandoned  all 
thought  of  descending.  My  only  hope  of  safety 
was  to  go  higher,  higher.  The  balloon  seemed  to 
shoot  up  a  limitless  distance,  as  the  sand  ran  out. 
The  moon  was  so  low  on  the  horizon  that  I  knew 
that  it  would  soon  sink  and  leave  us  in  total  dark- 
ness and  indescribable  desolation,  but  safe  at  all 
events  from  hostile  bullets.  The  darkness  and 
desolation  followed  very  shortly  afterward,  and  I 
resumed  my  place  at  Esther's  side.  She  was 
brave  and  calm,  and  seated  up  there  in  boundless 
space,  knowing  not  whither  we  went,  nor  at  what 


ESTHER  ROMAINE.  93 

moment  we  might  be  plunged  into  the  yawn- 
ing abyss  below  us,  I  felt  to  the  full  how 
dearly  I  loved  her,  and  how  little  I  deserved  her 
love.  A  man  realizes  his  utter  worthlessness  at 
such  times  ;  he  feels  how  completely  his  poor 
mortal  shell  is  in  the  grasp  of  God  ;  how  easy 
it  is  to  crush  him  out  of  existence,  and  how  mean, 
narrow  and  inconsequential  is  all  human  effort. 
In  the  silence  of  that  night,  and  in  the  presence  of 
the  majestic  conditions  around  us,  Esther  and  I 
found  voice  to  talk  of  our  love  and  our  future  as 
we  had  never  talked  before — as  no  lovers  had  ever 
talked  before,  perhaps.  We  spoke  low,  and  with 
something  of  the  timidity  of  children  when  the 
lightning  darts  across  the  skies,  accompanied  by 
the  reverberations  of  deafening  peals  of  thunder. 
It  is  under  such  circumstances,  sir,  no  matter  how 
self-dependent  a  man  may  be  by  nature,  that  he 
speaks  like  a  sick  girl,  and  qualifies  his  declara- 
tions with  '  i  f  it  please  God, '  '  if  Heaven  approves, ' 
and  similar  phrases  of  deference  to  the  Supreme 
Being  whom  he  feels  is  very  near  to  him. 
And  thus  through    the    night  we  sat  motionless, 


94  ESTHER  RO MAINE. 

and  talked  until  Esther  grew  silent  and  finally 
dropped  asleep  in  my  arms,  like  a  tired  child 
upon  its  mother's  breast.  I  sat  supporting  her 
fair  head  for  perhaps  an  hour  or  more,  when 
the  first  sound  that  I  had  heard,  except  our  sub- 
dued voices,  since  the  rifle  shot  as  we  soared 
over  the  Paris  fortifications,  fell  upon  my  ears. 
It  was  a  plashing  noise,  suggestive  of  water  below 
us,  and  my  heart  stopped  beating.  I  listened,  and 
again  I  heard  the  complaining  voices  of  the  waves. 
Removing  Esther  from  my  arms  and  placing  her 
in  as  comfortable  a  position  as  possible,  I  went  and 
looked  over  the  side  of  the  car,  but  I  could  see 
nothing.  A  dull,  opaque  gloom,  in  which  noth- 
ing whatsoever  was  distinguishable,  was  all  that  met 
my  eager  gaze.  But  after  a  time  I  discovered 
something  like  motion.  Whether  it  was  the  roll- 
ing clouds  or  the  movement  of  waves  I  could  not 
determine.  I  went  back  to  where  Esther  was 
reclining.  She  was  still  sleeping  soundly,  and, 
kissing  her  softly,  I  enveloped  her  more  snugly  in 
the  wraps  we  had  brought,  and  returned  to  watch 
developments.     As  I   gazed  the  sounds  seemed  to 


ESTHER  RO MAINE.  95 

come  nearer  and  nearer,  and  at  length  the  moving 
objects  beneath  became  more  distinctly  revealed  in 
the  increasing  dawn,  which  was  apparently  break- 
ing. All  at  once  I  beheld  the  movement  beneath 
and  around  me  regular  and  recurrent,  and  in  my 
ears  sounded  the  dash  of  angry  waters — the  surg- 
ing, foaming,  seething  billows  of  the  sea  !  I  sud- 
denly recognized,  then,  that  I  had  been  gradually 
descending  by  reason  of  the  percolation  of  the  gas, 
and  so  I  began  again  to  cast  out  ballast.  This  had 
the  desired  effect,  and  we  rapidly  ascended.  No, 
not  we.  For  when  I  returned  to  where  I  had  left 
Esther  sleeping,  she  was  gone." 

"I  will  not  weary  you,"  he  went  on  rapidly, 
"  with  a  recital  of  what  I  suffered  in  the  next  few 
hours.  Though  I  was  satisfied  that  I  was  sus- 
pended above  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  and  the  beating 
of  the  sullen  waves  beneath  me  sounded  plainly  in 
my  ears,  what  cared  I  ?  Esther,  my  Esther,  gentle, 
loving,  peerless  Esther,  had  perished  !  And  how, 
only  God  and  the  angels  knew.  I  laid  down  in 
the  bottom  of  the  car  and  waited  for  death.  It 
could  not  be  far  off,    I  reasoned,  for  it   was   now 


96  ESTHER  ROMAINE. 

light,  and  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  there  was 
one  vast  expanse  of  water.  It  was  the  Atlantic  ; 
that  was  patent,  and  I  made  ready  to  meet  my  fate. 
After  lying  in  a  semi-dazed  state  of  despair  for 
hours,  I  was  at  length  awakened  to  consciousness 
and  action  by  a  rustling,  scraping  sound.  As  I 
staggered  to  my  feet  the  balloon  tilted,  and  it  was 
only  by  a  quick  movement  and  by  strenuously 
holding  on  to  the  rigging,  that  I  escaped  being 
thrown  from  the  car.  Ready  and  willing  to  die, 
with  nothing  but  sorrowful  recollections  and  a  fu- 
ture as  dull  and  cold  as  the  tomb,  Fate  decreed 
that  I  should  live.  The  car  had  caught  in  the  top 
of  some  lofty  forest  trees,  and  in  a  few  moments  I 
was  safe  on  terra  firma.  I  found  a  village  near  at 
hand,  and  having  the  good  fortune  to  find  a  man 
who  spoke  French,  I  ascertained  that  I  had  come 
to  anchor  in  Norway.  That  I  was  beside  myself 
with  grief,  you  can  readily  believe.  But  what 
could  I  do  ?  I  could  not  communicate  with 
Esther's  friends  in  Paris,  even  if  they  still  remained 
there,  which  was  unlikely,  and  so  I  proceeded 
with  all  haste  to    Liverpool,   and    took    the   first 


ESTHER  ROMAINE.  97 

steamer  for  home.  From  Allentown  I  wrote  to  her 
relatives  in  Albany  the  sad  story  of  Esther's  mys- 
terious death,  and  my  brother,  who  is  a  merchant 
in  Shanghae,  being  on  the  point  of  returning  to 
China,  I  accompanied  him  thither,  hoping  to  bury 
my  troubles  by  diving  into  commercial  pursuits. 
But  it  was  useless ;  I  stayed  in  China  until  last 
year,  and  then  came  to  New  York  as  a  representa- 
tive of  my  brother's  firm. " 

Kirschbaum  seemed  much  moved  at  this  point, 
and  walked  nervously  about  the  room  for  two  or 
three  minutes.     Then  he  proceeded  : 

"Perhaps  I  told  you  yesterday  that  Central 
Park  has  a  strange  fascination  for  me.  No  ?  Well, 
it  has.  One  day,  some  months  after  my  arrival, 
while  I  was  horseback  riding,  I  came  upon  a  lady 
and  gentleman,  and  that  is  all  I  remember.  I 
swooned  in  my  saddle  and  fell.  When  I  revived 
I  was  lying  in  a  summer-house  near  where  I  had 
fallen,  and  the  result  of  the  fall  was  to  put  me  in 
bed  for  three  months.  You  naturally  wonder  what 
caused  me  to  faint.      I  will  tell  you. 

"1  had  seen  Esther  Romaine. 

7 


98  ESTHER  R0MA1NE. 

"And  what  was  worse,  I  learned  that  she  was 
married.  You  saw  her  yesterday,  sir,  in  the  per- 
son of  Mrs.  Howard  Vaughn." 

"But  how  did  she  escape  death?"  I  inquired, 
aghast.      "  Why  did  she  marry,  why  did — " 

"  There  is  where  the  mystery  comes  in,"  he  inter- 
rupted. "  I  arranged  an  interview  when  I  got  out 
again,  and  she  charged  me  with  having  deserted 
her,  of  having  left  her  to  perish  in  Paris,  while  she 
maintained  that  she  was  in  readiness  at  the  hotel  as 
agreed,  at  seven  o'clock  precisely,  and  that  I  never 
came  to  her,  which  was  true  enough.  Finally  she 
denied  that  she  ever  set  foot  in  that  balloon.  And 
so,  chagrined  at  my  supposed  desertion  and  almost 
crazed  with  fear,  she  was  about  to  give  up  all  hope, 
when  Howard  Vaughn,  a  casual  acquainiance  of 
ours,  then  came  to  her  like  a  guardian  angel,  and 
got  her  safely  out  of  Paris.  Piqued  by  my  supposed 
cruelty  and  subsequent  running  away  to  China,  as 
she  inferred,  and  earnestly  besought  by  Vaughn, 
who  really  loved  her,  she  finally  consented  to  be 
his  wife.  Moreover,  she  blamed  me  for  writing, 
wantonly,   as  she   then  belived,   to  her  relatives, 


ESTHER  ROMAINE.  99 

thereby  plunging  them  in  grief  at  her  death  while 
she  was  still  living  and  well." 

"  But  who  was  the  woman  you  took  with  you  by 
mistake,  and  whose  unhappy  death  sent  you  off  to 
China  ?  How  in  the  world  could  you  have  made 
such  a  blunder  ?     I  should  suppose — " 

"Stop  there,  my  friend,"  he  said,  in  measured 
accent,  raising  his  finger;  "  the  woman  I  took  from 
Paris  was  Miss  Esther  Romaine  or  her  ghost.  Why, 
sir,  we  talked  of  matters — matters  affecting  our 
future — known  only  to  us  two.  No  other  person 
could  have — why,  sir,"  he  exclaimed  passionately, 
"  do  you  suppose  I  could  have  made  a  mistake  ? 
Impossible,  absurd,  preposterous  !  " 

"  But  your  story  is  so  unreasonable  as  it  stands. 
I  don't  believe  in  ghosts — I  cannot  understand — " 

"You  cannot  understand,"  he  said,  with  biting 
scorn.  ' '  I  cannot  understand  it  either,  nor  can  she, 
and  we  have  been  studying  upon  it  for  months.  Do 
you  suppose,  sir,  that  you,  who  haven't  yet  had  time 
to  even  digest  the  bare  facts,  can  understand  what 
has  been  and  will  be  a  life-long  enigma  to  those 
who   are   most  vitally  interested  ?     Do   you    im- 


100  ESTHER  ROMA1NE. 

agine, "  he  inquired,  with  a  burst  of  indignation, 
' '  that  I  would  bring  you  here  to  listen  to  a  tame 
recital  of  matters  that  you  could  understand  after 
the  specific  statement  that  what  I  had  to  tell  was 
strange,  inexplicable  and  sad?'' 

I  saw  that  the  man  was  in  earnest,  that  he  was 
deeply  moved;  but  I  could  not  account  for,  nor 
could  I  scarcely  believe,  what  I  had  heard,  and  still 
I  was  satisfied  this  was  no  madman's  tale.  The 
speaker  was  sane  beyond  question.  I  was  sorely 
puzzled.  I  essayed  an  apology  for  what  I  had 
said,  when  Kirschbaum  interrupted  me,  saying 
soothingly: 

"There,  there,  never  mind.  I  have  lost  the 
brightest  gem  in  the  casket  of  womanly  grace  and 
beauty,  and  I  lose  my  temper  when  I  dwell  on  the 
horrors  of  that  night.  I  have  made  myself  quite 
ill  by  letting  my  anger  get  full  rein.  It  is  late;  you 
had  better  go  and  leave  me  to  myself." 

I  was  about  to  withdraw  when  he  said:  "  I  have 
abused  you,  sir,  but  I  have  likewise  honored  you. 
To  no  other  human  being  have  I  ever  told  that 
story;  but  I  took  a  fancy  to  you,  as  I  told  you  yes- 


ESTHER  ROMAINE.  101 

terday,  and  broke  the  seal  of  silence.  Think  of  me 
kindly,  and  forgive  my  indecorum,  if  you  can.  I 
am  terribly  unnerved.     Good  night !  " 

I  got  very  little  sleep  that  night,  and  my  theories 
and  speculations  only  plunged  me  in  deeper  gloom 
than  ever.  I  despaired  of  ever  solving  Kirsch- 
baumTs  mystery,  but  I  could  not  keep  his  story  out 
of  my  mind.  Thus  two  days  passed,  and  I  had  made 
my  plans  for  returning  home  on  the  evening  train, 
when,  as  I  was  strolling  in  Madison  Square,  I  met 
Mrs.  Blossom,  a  lady  whom  I  had  known  in 
Boston  many  years  before.  She  had  married  Mr. 
Blossom  in  the  meantime,  and  was  now  a  widow. 
Like  many  other  not  over-cultivated  women,  she 
entertained  a  passion  for  literary  and  theatrical 
people,  concert  and  opera  singers,  artists,  sculp- 
tors, and  persons  of  that  ilk,  who  gathered  about 
her  for  several  reasons,  prominent  among  which 
were  that  she  was  a  kind-hearted,  motherly  woman, 
and  a  hostess  withal  whose  means  enabled  her  to 
give  regal  entertainments.  She  had  frequently  in- 
vited me  to  her  house,  and  once  or  twice  I  had 
gone,  but  had  generally  felt  my  unfitness  to  mingle 


102  ESTHER  ROMAINE. 

satisfactorily  to  myself  with  the  clever  people  who 
congregated  within  her  hospitable  walls,  and  I  had 
decided  not  to  go  again.  But  Mrs.  Blossom  was 
very  pressing,  and  finally  she  said  :  "  Do  stop  over 
and  come  to  my  little  party  this  evening."  Then 
she  named  many  persons  of  note  who  would  be 
present ;  but  I  resolutely  shook  my  head,  and  held 
that  I  must  positively  go  home. 

"Then  you  won't  have  no  opportunity  of  meet- 
ing Miss  Vaughn,  perhaps  '11  never  see  her,  and 
she's  all  the  rage." 

I  answered  quickly:  "Well,  then,  since  you 
will  have  it  so,  I'll  come." 

As  the  reader  may  surmise,  I  changed  my  mind 
in  view  of  the  suddenly  opened  prospect  of  meet- 
ing Kirschbaum's  love.  True,  Mrs.  Blossom  had 
spoken  of  the  lady  as  Miss  Vaughn,  but  I  had  no- 
ticed a  great  many  times  before  that  Mrs.  Blos- 
som's pronunciation  of  "  Miss"  and  "  Mrs."  did 
not  vary.  She  Missed  all  ladies,  married  or  single, 
even  as  she  missed  hitting  plural  verbs  to  tally 
with  her  plural  nouns.  But  let  us  not  cavil  at  her 
pronunciation  or  her  grammar  ;  her  goodness  of 


ESTHER  RO MAINE.  103 

heart  made  ample  amends  for  her  partiality  for  two 
negatives  and  other  eccentricities  of  speech,  as  well 
as  for  careless  pronunciations. 

I  was  not  amiss  in  my  calculation,  and  at  ten 
o'clock  that  evening  I  found  myself  gaily  chatting 
with  my  divinity  of  the  Park.  We  talked  with  the 
utmost  freedom  and  frankness,  the  disparity  in  our 
ages  rendering  it  unnecessary  that  we  should  ob- 
serve the  little  ceremonies  common  between  young 
people  in  society.  We  spoke  at  length  of  Paris, 
and  she  listened  attentively  to  all  I  said  of  the 
French  capital,  its  arts,  industries  and  architectural 
splendors.  She  hoped  she  should  go  there  some 
day,  she  said. 

"  Go  there  again,  I  presume  you  mean  ?"  I  ob- 
served, adding  that  I  hoped  she  would  find  the  city 
more  quiet  than  in  the  old  days  of  the  Commune. 
She  bestowed  on  me  a  puzzled  look,  but  said 
nothing.  Presently  I  continued:  "  Kirschbaum 
told  me  that  strange,  sad  story.  Perhaps  I  ought 
not  to  speak  of  the  balloon  mystery,  but  really  I 
have  studied  over  it  so  much  I  can  scarcely  think 
of  anything  else."     Her  puzzled  look  gradually 


104  ESTHER  ROMAINE. 

changed  to  one  of  apparent  fright,  and  to  pacify  her 
I  concluded  quickly  :  "  Pardon  me,  Mrs.  Vaughn, 
I  can  understand  your  feelings  ;  it  was  indeed  a 
most  inexplicable  and  mysterious  affair  The  only 
pleasant  thing  in  connection  with  it  is  the  manly 
attitude  Kirschbaum  maintains.  I  can  assure  you 
and  your  husband — " 

"My  husband!"  she  ejaculated,  in  surprise; 
"why,  Mr.  Marble,  I  have  no  husband,  at  least 
not  yet,"  she  said,  blushing.  "It  is  no  secret  in 
society,  however,  that  I  shall  soon  wed  with 
Signor  Feoretti,  the  tenor." 

It  was  my  time  now  to  ejaculate.  "Not 
married!"  I  returned;  "and  who,  pray,  was  the 
gentleman  with  whom  I  saw  you  riding  in  Central 
Park  on  Monday  ?" 

"Why,  my  uncle,  of  course — Captain  Peters,  of 
the  Inman  Line,"  she  replied.  "And  who  is  this 
Kirschbaum,"  she  inquired,  "of  whom  you  speak 
as  if  he  knew  me?  I  remember  no  gentleman 
among  my  friends  bearing  that  name." 

"My  dear  Miss  Vaughn,"  I  said,   respectfully, 
"  I  am  all  at  sea.     Somebody  has  gone  out  of  his 


ESTHER  ROMAINE.  105 

head — possibly  I,  perad venture  another  man,  but 
things  are  getting  queerly  mixed  up,"  saying  which 
I  wiped  the  beads  of  perspiration  from  my  face, 
which  were  exuding  from  every  pore.  "Pray 
pardon  me,  but  may  I  ask  who  you  are  ?  " 

"Somebody    is   certainly  demented.      All  your 
talk  about  the  Commune,  the  balloon  mystery  and 
my  going  to  Paris  again  was  as  a  sealed  book  to  me, 
but  I  let  it  pass,  hoping  we  should  flounder  out  of 
the  maze  shortly.     As  to  who  I  am,   I    supposed 
Mrs.  Blossom  had  told  you.      I  am  only  an  aspir- 
ing woman  with  a  soprano  voice  which  the  critics 
say  promises  future  distinction  for  me,  and  indeed 
I  have  been  very  successful  in   'Mignon.'     It  is 
not  pleasant  for  me,  as  you  see,  sir,  to  speak  of 
myself  (her   sweet    face  was   painfully  flushed), 
"but  we  seem  to   be  drifting  so  hopelessly  that  I 
have  answered  your  question  in  all  candor." 

As  I  turned  to  apologize  I  saw  Kirschbaum  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  engaged  in  merry 
conversation  with  Mrs.  Blossom.  He  had  not  seen 
me,  apparently,  and  I  changed  my  position  so 
that  my  face  would  not  be  visible  to  him,  and  said 
to  Miss  Vaughn  : 


106  ESTHER  ROMA1NE. 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  you  shall  have  an  ample 
apology  for  what  no  doubt  seems  to  you  like  rude 
conduct  from  a  man  old  enough  to  have  a  proper 
regard  for  a  lady — a  fatherly  tenderness,  indeed, 
for  a  woman  of  your  age  ;  but  before  I  say  a  word 
in  explanation  I  wish  to  ask  one  more  question. 
Will  you  kindly  tell  me  if  you  ever  saw  that  hand- 
some, smooth-faced  gentleman  before  who  is  talk- 
ing with  Mrs.  Blossom  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed,"  she  replied,  "  I  know  him 
very  well." 

"Oh,  you  do,  eh!"  I  returned,  petulantly. 
"  I  dare  say  you  do." 

She  looked  at  me  reproachfully,  and  said  very 
gravely:  "We  may  as  well  agree  to  disagree. 
Your  last  remark  was  intended  to  be  invidious, 
and  I  submit  that  you  have  no  reason  to  annoy  me 
further." 

If  I  had  been  a  younger  man  I  believe  I  should 
have  determined,  as  I  stood  looking  down  into  the 
pure  depths  of  Miss  Vaughn's  angelic  eyes,  to  cast 
the  gauntlet  at  Signor  Feoretti's  feet,  and  enter  the 
lists  as  a  competitor  for  the  smiles  of  her  who  held 


ESTHER  ROMAINE.  107 

me  spell-bound  with  her  graceful  beauty.  "But 
no,"  thought  I,  "all  that  is  past  for  me;  I  am 
wedded  to  a  memory  ;  let  me  not  add  weakness, 
even  in  thought,  to  my  palpable  rudeness. "  After 
a  moment  I  found  voice  to  ask  very  meekly  : 

"  And  who  is  this  gentleman  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  knew  him  or  I  would  have  told 
you   that    before,"   she   rejoined,    half    pityingly. 

"That  is  Mr.  John  K ,  the  somewhat  celebrated 

actor,  who  has  just  returned  from  Australia.  He 
will  play  a  round  of  old  English  characters  soon,  at 
Wallack's." 

"  Have  you  known  him  long?  "  I  pursued. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  laughing,  "since  child- 
hood. He  is,  in  fact,  my  brother — his  real  name  is 
Silas  Vaughn. " 

I  felt  faint  and  giddy,  but  soon  summoned 
strength  to  ask  if  the  gentleman  was  a  man  of 
veracity.  She  regarded  me  with  a  look  of  genuine 
sympathy,  as  if  by  the  quick  intuition  of  her  sex 
she  had  made  a  discovery,  and  said  slowly, 
"Y-e-s  and  n-o.  He  is  truthful  enough  about 
matters  of  vital  importance,  but  he  sometimes  lets 


108  ESTHER  RO MAINE. 

his  imagination  run  wild  for  amusement,  and  at 
such  times  I  have  heard  Mr.  Sothern  say  that  he 
evolves  such  romances  as  to  create  the  impression 
among  his  professional  friends  that  he  missed  his 
calling  in  not  going  into  fiction.  I  hope,"  she 
continued,  with  a  womanly  sweetness  that  went  to 
my  soul,  and  which  I  shall  never  forget,  "that 
Silas  hasn't  been —  " 

At  this  moment  Signor  Feoretti  came  up,  and  I 
stood  to  one  side  ;  and  as  this  soon  to  be  mated 
pair  were  temporarily  engaged  in  conversation,  I 
quietly  passed  through  the  throng  to  the  lower 
rooms.  Here,  while  donning  my  coat  and  hat,  I 
encountered  and  bade  Mrs.  Blossom  an  abrupt 
good  night,  and  thence  I  proceeded  to  my  hotel. 
And  as  I  passed  thither  under  the  silent,  solitary 
stars,  I  began  to  study  upon  a  plan  for  the  regen- 
eration of  those  misguided  sons  of  men  who  speak 
with  most  miraculous  organ,  but  with  an  utter  dis- 
regard of  truth.  I  confess  that  I  have  not  pro- 
gressed well  thus  far  in  perfecting  my  plan,  and 
every-day  occurrences  sometimes  make  me  feel 
that  I  have  not  only  entered  upon  my  life  work, 


ESTHER  ROMAINE.  109 

but,  if  we  are  not  without  occupations  in  the  next 
world,  that  I  shall  still  have  food  for  study  and 
reflection,  even  after  I  have  passed  to  where, 
beyond  these  voices,  all  is  peace. 


AN  OLD  MAN'S  EXEGESIS. 


AN  OLD  MAN'S  EXEGESIS. 

"  IV /FY  dear  Marble,"  said  a  young  friend,  who 
met  me  on  the  street  the  other  day,  "why 
the  .Dickens  will  you  persist  in  associating  with 
that  Gregory  Judd  ?  " 

I  know  all  about  Judd.  He  fails  to  pay  his 
bills,  neglects  his  engagements  and  dresses  far 
from  fashionably.  Judd  is  what  the  world  styles 
a  shiftless  man.  His  tout  ensemble,  whichever 
way  you  view  him,  reminds  you  of  a  shoe  that 
has  run  down  at  the  heel.  The  question  put 
to  me  was  a  difficult  one  to  answer  offhand,  and 
so  I  did  what  my  fellow-man  usually  does  when  he 
is  puzzled.  I  assumed  a  look  of  surprise  and  re- 
plied : 

"Why  !" 

My  interrogator,  aware  that  I  knew  Judd's  fail- 
ings fully  as  well  as  he,  became  indignant  at  once, 
and  bestowing  a  look  on  me  which  said  as  plainly 
as  words  could  do,  "Marble,  I  blush  for  you," 
walked  away,  blushing  as  he  went,  whether  from 

8 


114  AN  OLD  MAN'S  EXEGESIS. 

shame  for  me  or  from  indignation,  I  cannot  pre- 
tend to  say. 

When  I  reached   my  office  I   sat  and  thought 
about  Judd  for  a  long  time,  but  pondering  on  the 
question    propounded    did    not   assist    me    much 
toward  giving  a  satisfactory  answer.      Finally  I  was 
aroused  by  a  light  tap  on  my  shoulder,  and  look- 
ing up  I  beheld   the  veritable  Mr.  Judd  himself. 
He  was  as  forlorn  looking  as  ever,  under  a  vener- 
able   hat,    matched    with    an    untidy    cravat,    lack 
luster  gaiters,  and  a  suit  of  clothes  which  had  not 
improved  on  long  acquaintance.      "I    have  just 
dropped  in,"  said  Judd,  "  like  Pry  in  the  play,  and 
I  hope  I  don't  intrude."     He  added  that  having 
discovered  a  creditor  whom  he  could  not  pay  com- 
ing up  the  street,  he  had  eluded  him  by  dodging 
into  my  office. 

An  hour  elapsed  before  Judd  departed.  It  was  a 
joyous  hour  to  me,  and  to  him,  too,  I  think,  for 
when  he  left  me  the  look  of  weariness  which  was 
settled  on  his  face  when  he  came  had  disappeared, 
and  his  countenance  beamed  as  pleasantly  as  ever 
Harold  Skimpole's  beamed  in  his  afflictions.    Judd 


AN  OLD  MAN'S  EXEGESIS.  115 

is,  in  fact,  a  sort  of  modified  Skimpole,  with  em- 
barrassments as  numerous,  though  lacking  some 
of  the  lax  ideas  entertained  by  Mr.  Dickens'  hero. 
If  my  young  friend  had  been  present  as  I  pressed 
a  bank  note  into  Judd's  hand  and  wished  him 
better  fortune,  I  should  have  replied  to  the  query 
with  which  this  explanation  opens  something  as 
follows  : 

There  is  no  good  end  to  be  served  by  my  deny- 
ing that  I  like  Judd  immensely,  or  that  his  society, 
despite  his  many  weaknesses,  is  dearer  to  me  than 
that  of  any  of  my  other  friends.  I  always  feel 
younger  after  seeing  him — his  presence  near  me  is 
a  perpetual  solace.  In  Judd  you  behold  the  friend 
and  companion  of  my  youth.  We  are  getting  on  in 
years ;  our  spring,  summer  and  autumn  have 
passed  away,  and  as  we  approach  the  winter  of  our 
lives,  when  the  snow  is  beginning  to  settle  on  our 
heads  and  beards,  and  when  our  faces  are  begin- 
ning to  bear  witness  of  heavy  weather  experi- 
enced during  life's  voyage,  we  live  over  in  memory 
the  three  seasons  which  are  gone,  and  deduce  un- 
speakable  pleasure   therefrom.     Away  up  among 


116  AN  OLD  MAN'S  EXEGESIS. 

the  hills  and  dales  of  Massachusetts,  where  the 
Blackstone  winds  brightly  in  the  sunlight,  a  mere 
brook  ;  where  the  atmosphere  is  as  clear  and  fra- 
grant as  nectar  ;  where,  of  all  the  world,  the  trees 
and  the  fields  are  of  the  greenest  possible  tint ; 
where  the  robin  sings  in  the  sweetest  strains  at 
morning  ;  where  the  bluejay  is  the  bluest ;  where 
the  whippoorwill  chirps  in  tones  of  the  most  mel- 
ancholy sweetness  at  night  ;  where  the  sun  is 
brightest,  the  sky  clearest  ;  where  the  moon  shines 
the  softest ;  where  the  stars  twinkle  the  merriest, 
and  where  everything  around,  in  our  opinion  at 
least,  is  primitive,  beautiful  and  smiling,  we  were 
born,  and  passed  together  our  dear,  dreamy,  deli- 
cious days  of  boyhood. 

Amid  these  gentle  scenes  we  read  the  "Chil- 
dren of  the  Abbey, "  the  ' '  Arabian  Nights, "  ' '  Rob- 
inson Crusoe,"  and  many  other  delightful  books  bor- 
rowed from  a  half  hermit,  half  philosopher,  who 
lived  in  our  neighborhood.  Along  the  banks  of 
the  most  crooked  and  most  lively  of  all  brooks 
that  babble  through  sweet  meadows  we  have  crept 
with  cat-like  steps,  angling  for  the  wary  trout,  until 


AN  OLD  MAN'S  EXEGESIS.  Ill 

we  knew  by  heart  each  rock  and  bush  along  the 
devious  course  of  that  garrulous  streamlet.  We 
have  hunted  the  hills  together  for  miles  around  for 
hazel  nuts ;  we  have  raked  hay,  stolen  peaches 
and  musk  melons,  and  attended  huskings,  wed- 
dings and  rural  merry  makings  of  every  kind,  in 
company,  forty  long  years  ago.  Schools  were  not 
as  plentiful  in  our  time  as  now  ;  but  after  the 
busy  summer-time  was  over,  when  the  "school 
marm  "  had  departed  for  the  season,  and  the  long 
vacation  had  passed,  then  would  come  some  tall, 
strapping  Ichabod  Crane  to  occupy  the  throne  at 
the  district  school  during  the  winter,  and  we  would 
pack  up  our  little  stock  of  books,  tallow  our  great 
cowhide  boots,  and  adopt  the  role  of  pupils.  We 
were  quite  "  man  grown  "  before  we  graduated  at 
Science  Hill,  and  we  remember  very  distinctly 
that  near  the  end  of  our  last  term  we  were  not  a 
little  chagrined  by  having  the  rector's  daughter,  a 
pert  little  miss  of  perhaps  ten  years,  "go  above" 
us  both  in  the  spelling  class. 

Forty  years  have  wrought  great  changes  even  in 
that  secluded  region,  where  the  air  is  so  pure  and 


118  AN  OLD  MAN'S  EXEGESIS. 

everything  so  joyous  that  it  seems  singular  that 
people  ever  become  ill  or  weary  there,  when  we 
consider  that  they  exist  at  all  in  great  cities.  Much 
of  the  somnolence  which  once  lingered  about  the 
section  has  been  marred  by  the  advent  of  the  rail- 
road, but  sufficient  that  is  old  remains  to  render 
it  the  "dearest  spot  on  earth  "  to  us  still.  How 
dearly  we  love  to  revisit  those  scenes!  How  happy 
we  are  in  walking  over  the  paths  we  once  trod  so 
buoyantly,  and  in  dwelling  on  old  recollections  ! 

We  make  our  excursions  quite  incognito.  Saun- 
tering through  the  town,  or  lingering  in  the  old 
burial-ground,  reading  the  names  engraven  on  the 
slabs,  we  are  almost  strangers  among  those  who 
now  people  our  old  neighborhood.  But  what  mat- 
ters it  ?  If  the  pine  grove  is  still  and  neglected 
where  once  our  laughter  echoed  so  joyously,  can- 
not imagination,  dipping  her  pencils  in  the  sun- 
set's richest  hues,  fill  out  the  picture?  Certainly  it 
can  and  does,  for  Judd  and  I  are  a  pair  of  very 
imaginative  as  well  as  very  soft-hearted  old  fel- 
lows. We  are  sometimes  a  trifle  melancholy  on 
these  visits,  particularly  when  we  think  of  our  old 


AN  OLD  MAN'S  EXEGESIS.  119 

companions.  Alas !  where  are  they  ?  Beneath 
the  greensward  in  the  quaint  little  burial-ground 
some  are  sleeping,  a  part  of  whom  lived  and  died 
amid  the  familiar  scenes  of  youth.  Others  went 
forth  into  the  world,  were  lured  on  and  on  by 
visions  of  renown  and  wealth,  and  returned  like 
poor  Slingsby,  footsore,  weary  and  poverty 
stricken,  to  their  birthplace,  to 

"  Husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
And  keep  the  flames  from  wasting,  by  repose," 

but  who  died  at  last,  and  were  gathered  to  their 
fathers.  Many  are  scattered  about  the  world,  still 
living;  more  have  died  in  regions  far  remote  from 
their  homes;  while  a  few,  a  very  few,  are  yet  living, 
like  Miriam  Lane,  "old  and  garrulous" — vol- 
umes incarnate  richly  stored  with  legends  and 
anecdotes  bearing  on  the  past. 

Tis  a  simple  tale,  this  one  of  ours,  scarcely 
worth  the  telling,  perchance;  and  yet  there  is  some- 
thing in  it.  There  is  hardly  a  community,  how- 
ever small,  that  has  not  its  Judd  and  Marble, 
sometimes  many  braces  of  them,  about  whom 
their    acquaintances    are    ever    speculating.     We 


120  AN  OLD  MAN'S  EXEGESIS. 

should  not  forget  that  there  are  many  "  ups  and 
downs  "  in  life,  and  that  the  "  downs  "  are  usually 
the  more  common.  Judd's  experience  has  been 
wholly  with  them.  There  are  many  things  besides 
prosperity  which  should  endear  to  us  our  fellow- 
creatures.  Success  commands  admiration  and 
should  receive  its  due;  but  honest  failure,  with 
its  long  train  of  enervating  embarrassments  and 
disappointments,  should  receive  our  respect  and 
sympathy.  A  green  spot  existing  at  this  advanced 
day  in  Judd's  heart,  as  illustrated  by  the  loye  he 
bears  the  region  in  which  he  was  born  and  the 
associations  of  his  childhood — existing  where  it 
would  seem  such  repeated  failures  and  disasters 
in  life  as  have  been  his  could  have  given  birth  to 
nothing  but  bitterness — speaks  of  the  goodness 
and  largeness  of  his  soul,  and  makes  him  worthy 
of  a  better  friendship  than  mine. 

But  a  little  longer  shall  we  perplex  you;  our 
candle  is  burning  low,  and  ere  long  its  weak  light 
will  expire,  to  be  relumed  no  more. 


AGNES  LEIGH. 


AGNES  LEIGH. 

]\/|R.  JACK  MASTERS,  clerk  to  a  Wall  street 
broker,  had  just  dined  at  the  St.  Denis 
Hotel,  and  having  sought  his  room  in  West  14th 
street,  was  seated  before  a  glowing  grate.  The 
wind  howled  dismally  out-of-doors,  and  the  snow 
was  falling  as  Jack  calmly  lighted  a  cigar  and 
sat  down  before  the  fire.  Judging  from  the  varying 
expressions  of  his  face,  very  pleasant  thoughts  were 
chasing  each  other  to  and  fro  in  the  graceless 
fellow's  mind  as  he  reclined  luxuriously  in  his 
easy  chair  and  peered  through  the  little  smoke 
rings  which  he  was  sending  upward  like  bubbles 
out  of  a  child's  pipe.  Jack  Masters  was  very 
handsome  and  elegant,  and  his  only  fault,  per- 
haps, was  that  he  had  a  passion  for  adventure 
which  was  not  becoming  in  a  well-bred  and  prop- 
erly educated  young  man.  His  good  mother  and 
father,  whom  he  had  left  two  years  before  at  the 
old  home,  in  Cortland,  N.  Y.,  had  views  matri- 
monial and  otherwise  for  their  only  son,  and  Jack 


124  AGNES  LEIGH. 

knew  it.  He  loved  his  mother  devotedly  and  re- 
spected his  father  very  highly,  and  was  as  affec- 
tionate, I  dare  say,  as  sons  on  an  average  are ; 
but  he  had  an  indefinable  notion  that  he  would 
one  day  marry  some  sentimental  creature  in  a 
romantic  fashion,  and  he  had  been  dreaming 
many  bright  visions  over  his  cigar  these  March 
evenings.  True,  he  corresponded  regularly  with 
Miss  Harriet  Van  Wormer,  and  it  was  well  under- 
stood in  Cortland  that  when  Jack  Masters  had 
finished  his  business  education  at  Salivateum  & 
Co. 's  he  was  to  return  to  his  native  town,  embark 
in  business,  marry  Miss  Van  Wormer,  join  the 
church  and  settle  down  to  a  life  of  eminent 
respectability.  Privately  Jack  disliked  this  pro- 
gramme, and,  as  is  too  often  the  case  when  men 
pretend  to  be  en  rapport  with  other  people's 
schemes,  he  had  a  whole  set  of  visions  which  he 
dreamed  at  opportune  moments,  and  about  which 
he  never  talked  to  any  one.  I  would  not  say  that 
he  ever  doubted  that  he  would  ultimately  carry 
out  his  part  of  the  programme  as  above  set  down, 
but  he  liked  to  think  about  other  plans  and  possi- 


AGNES  LEIGH.  125 

bilities;  though  they  were  always  shadowy  affairs, 
as  intangible  and  shapeless  as  the  autumnal  mists 
dimly  enshrouding  the  far-off  points  as  the  sun 
imprints  its  good-night  kiss  on  forest,  hill  and 
mead,  and,  smiling  upward  at  the  blushing 
heavens,  still  smiles  and  vanishes. 

On  this  particular  evening  Masters  was  un- 
usually thoughtful  and  speculative.  As  he  grace- 
fully snapped  the  ashes  from  the  end  of  his  cigar 
with  his  little  finger,  he  laughed  softly  to  himself 
and  murmured  : 

"I've  half  a  mind  to  answer  it.  No  harm  can 
possibly  come  of  it.  If  a  man  is  honorable  in  his 
intentions,  I  don't  see  any  reason  why  he  shouldn't 
have  a  little  entertainment.  Goodness  knows  I 
have  a  tedious  time  of  it  here.  The  life  of  a  Wall 
street  man  is  like  a  Christmas  annual — bright  and 
gaudy  outside,  but  dismal  as  a  swell  party  within. 
I  have  no  taste  for  this  broker's  business.  I  some- 
times doubt  if  I  will  ever  make  a  good,  solid,  re- 
spectable citizen  of  Cortland  or  any  other  town, 
and  I  have  a  great  mind  to  try  my  hand  at  a  cor- 
respondence which   will  undoubtedly  prove  inter- 


126  AGNES  LEIGH. 

esting.  Miss  Van  Wormer  is  all  very  well  in  her 
way,  but  her  letters  are  scarcely  calculated  to  turn 
the  head  of  an  anchorite  or  accomplish  a  miracle  in 
any  other  direction.  Who  was  that  fellow  who 
said  that  '  there  is  no  loneliness  like  the  loneli- 
ness of  a  great  city'?  His  head  was  awfully  level, 
whoever  he  was,"  and  jumping  from  his  chair, 
Masters  exclaimed:  "  By  Jove,  I'll  do  it  or  I'm 
a  Dutchman  ! "  He  was  not  a  Dutchman,  so 
it  is  safe  to  assume  that  he  meant  to  keep  his  word. 
The  following  paragraph,  which  he  had  found 
in  the  columns  of  an  evening  paper,  was  what 
had  upset  Mr.  Masters'  equipoise  and  set  his 
tongue  to  running  at  an  unusually  lively  gait  : 

"  Wanted. — By  a  young  lady,  twenty-two  years 
of  age,  tolerably  well  educated  and  traveled,  a  lady 
correspondent,  not  younger  than  twenty  years  and 
not  older  than  twenty-five  years.  Address,  with  real 
name,  Agnes  Leigh,  Station  E.,  New  York  City." 

Since  I  cannot  defend  Masters,  I  may  as  well  say 
frankly  that  he  proposed  to  answer  this  advertise- 
ment, leading  Miss  Agnes  Leigh  to  suppose  that  he 
was  a  lady.  Some  of  my  readers  may  look  upon 
his  action  in  the  light  of  a  misrepresentation.     I 


AGNES  LEIGH.  127 

rather  incline  to  that  belief  myself,  but  as  the  affair 
is  Jack's  and  not  mine,  I  should  be  very  foolish  if  I 
were  to  quarrel  with  him  about  it.     So  would  you. 

When  a  young  fellow  who  has  been  obtaining 
his  education  in  a  desultory  sort  of  a  way  at  a 
country  college,  interspersing  his  studies  with  more 
or  less  yachting,  sprinting,  tennis  playing  and 
kindred  out-of-door  pursuits,  suddenly  settles 
down  in  a  city  like  New  York  and  goes  through 
the  motions,  at  least,  of  being  a  man  of  business, 
he  is  pretty  certain  to  find  his  new  environment  so 
different  from  what  he  has  been  accustomed  to, 
that  the  theatre,  the  billiard-room,  the  club  and 
drawing-room  do  not  fully  recompense  him  for 
the  open  air  pleasures  he  has  foregone. 

It  is  in  the  presence  of  such  conditions  that  men 
take  naturally  to  flirtations,  and  thus  it  came  about 
that  on  the  next  day  Jack  wrote  in  a  good  imitation 
of  a  fashionable  feminine  hand  the  first  of  the  ap- 
pended letters.  It  was  duly  mailed  to  his  friend, 
Sam  Hooker,  in  Chicago,  with  the  request  to  re-mail 
it  to  New  York,  and  to  forward  also  any  letters  re- 
ceived by  him  addressed  to  Miss  Charlotte  Heywood. 


AGNES  LEIGH.  129 

this  note  to  you,  hoping  it  may  lead  to  our  be- 
coming correspondents.  I  dare  say  you  will  re- 
ceive hundreds  of  replies  to  your  advertisement, 
and  among  the  many  there  will  essentially  be  some 
whose  writers  will  betray  graces  of  mind  and 
charms  of  composition,  better  entitling  them  to 
your  consideration  than  I  am  entitled  by  anything 
written  herewith.  And  yet  I  would  like  to  be  the 
"  chosen  one";  but  I  send  you  this  with  something 
of  the  feeling  that  sweet  Robert  Burns  experienced 
as  he  let  the  mouse  go  and  fell  to  thinking  of  his 
own  future.     You  will  remember  the  last  verse  : 

"  Still  thou  art  blest  compared  vvi'  me. 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee. 
But,  och  !  I  backward  cast  my  e'e 

On  prospects  drear  ; 
And  forward,  though  I  canna'  see, 
I  guess  and  fear." 

Yes,  I  guess  and  fear.  I  guess  you  will  be  over- 
run with  answers  and  fear  you  will  scarcely  care 
for  poor  me.  However,  should  you  honor  me 
with  your  attention,  I  shall  bring  to  the  pleasant 
duty  of  answering  your  letter  the  honesty  of  pur- 
pose which  exists  only  in  a  woman's  heart. 
Very  respectfully  yours, 

Charlotte  Heywood. 
Miss  Agnes  Leigh,  New  York  City. 


130  AGNES  LEIGH. 

24  Irving  Place, 
New  York,  April  2,    187 — 

Dear  Miss  Heywood, — Heigho  !  What  a  lot  of 
rubbish  I  have  read  to-day  !  I  have  received  a 
hundred  and  thirty-five  answers  to  my  advertise- 
ment. Some  of  the  letters  are  tolerable,  others  are 
stupid  and  all  of  one-half  of  them  apparently  come 
from  men.  I  am  disgusted  with  the  whole  perfidious 
sex  when  I  think  how  many  have  had  the  audacity 
to  assume  such  fearfully  unreal  names  as  Maude 
Chesterfield,  Heather  Browning,  etc.,  expecting 
me  to  be  deceived  by  their  flowery  and  vapid  utter- 
ances.     A  plague  on  all  the  men,  say  I  ! 

Your  letter  completely  won  my  heart,  and  I 
have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  I  prefer  you  not 
only  to  any  of  the  others  who  have  written  to  me, 
but  to  all  the  others.  As  Dickens  beautifully 
says,  in  one  of  his  private  letters,  written  more 
than  thirty  years  ago  :  "And  for  the  pleasure  with 
which  I  shall  always  think  of  you,  and  the  glow  I 
shall  feel  when  I  see  your  handwritirg  in  my  own 
home,  I  hereby  enter  into  a  solemn  league  and 
covenant  to  write  as  many  letters  to  you  as  you 
write  to  me,  at  least.     Amen. " 

Business  settled,  let  us  compare  notes.  What 
do  you  read  ?     Whom  do  you  like  best,  and  what 


AGNES  LEIGH.  131 

are  you  reading  now  ?  I  am  madly  in  love  with 
Longfellow  and  Tennyson  ;  don't  care  much  for 
the  pre-Raphaelites.  I  admire  their  genius,  because 
it  is  genius  ;  but  Aldrich  is  a  greater  favorite  with 
me  than  his  more  sensuous  contemporaries.  You 
have  read  "Prudence  Palfrey,"  of  course.  Isn't 
it  nice  ?  I  like  John  Dent  very  much,  but  he 
isn't  as  nice  as  Nevins.  What  a  dear  old  rascal 
the  fellow  was  !  I  am  sure  I  should  have  fallen 
straight  in  love  with  him  had  I  been  in  Prue's 
place.     Oh,  isn't  she  a  darling  ! 

About  this  correspondence,  here  is  how  I  came 
to  advertise.  We  are  strangers  here,  papa,  mamma 
and  I.  We  live  in  New  Orleans  and  came  North 
last  month.  Mamma  is  an  invalid,  and  papa  has 
the  greatest  faith  in  Dr.  Brown-Sequard,  and 
brought  her  here  to  be  treated.  Of  course  I  have 
been  very  lonely  with  no  friends  as  I  had  in  New 
Orleans,  and  so,  while  I  was  complaining  of  the 
dullness,  papa  proposed  that  I  should  advertise  for 
a  lady  correspondent.  "But,"  said  I,  "some 
gentleman  will  palm  himself  off  on  me  as  a  lady, 
and  the  first  thing  I  know  I  shall  be  in  love,  en- 
gaged, and  perhaps  married."  Papa  laughed 
heartily  at  the  idea,  and  said  :  "  Let  me  pick  out 
the   correspondent  you  shall  select  when  the  an- 


132  AGNES  LEIGH. 

swers  begin  to  come  in,  and  I'll  make  no  mistake, 
puss."  So,  when  my  letters  began  to  arrive,  he 
rejected  one  after  another  until  he  came  to  yours. 
He  read  it  very  carefully,  and  said  :  "That young 
lady  can  be  trusted.  There  is  a  ring  about  what 
she  says  that  carries  conviction  with  it."  And  thus 
it  happened  that  you  were  our  choice.  Papa  and 
I  seldom  agree  on  any  subject,  but  it  is  true  that 
my  heart  yearned  toward  you  from  the  first,  and 
papa's  approval  of  the  selection  I  had  mentally 
made  was  all  that  was  necessary  to  my  happiness. 

I  hope  you  won't  find  me  dull  and  regret  that 
you  wrote  to  me.  You  must  excuse  me  now  as 
we  are  going  to  Wallack's  to-night,  and  I  am  in  a 
desperate  hurry.     Write  soon. 

Affectionately  yours, 

Agnes. 
Miss  Charlotte  Heywood,  Chicago,  111. 


246  Wabash  Avenue, 
Chicago,  III.,  April  5,  187 — . 
Dear  Miss  Agnes, — I  was  overjoyed  on  return- 
ing home  from  a  drive  on  the  Drexel  Boulevard 
this  evening  to  find  your  capital  letter  of  the  2d 
instant.  I  have  been  out  riding  with  brother  Hal, 
the  dearest  old  brother  you  ever  saw.      He  is  in 


AGNES  LEIGH.  133 

college  at  Ann  Arbor,  but  occasionally  he  runs 
home  and  keeps  us  in  excellent  spirits  for  a  week, 
and  then  vanishes  like  an  exhalation.  Hal  is  three 
years  my  senior,  tall,  black  as  a  bandit,  and  a  tor- 
nado incarnate  of  compliments,  sweet  nothings  and 
poetry.  All  the  girls  in  Chicago  adore  him.  I 
wonder  if  you  would  like  him,  too.  Dear  old 
Hal  !     How  I  love  him  ! 

I  have  just  finished  reading  Irving's   "  Life  of 
Goldsmith,"  and  I  scarcely  know  which  I  like  the 
more,  Irving  or  poor  Goldy.     They  are  both  en- 
trancing.    I   have  read   Irving  a  great  deal,  and 
at  one  time  refused  to  believe  that  there  was  any- 
thing half  as  nice  as  "  The  Alhambra, "  but  as  we 
grow  old — ahem  ! — we  get  new  notions.     Latterly 
I  have  taken  up  Sir  Philip  Gilbert  Hammerton. 
His  writings  are  very  good  reading,  though  I  don't 
like  them  as  well  as  Mr.  Harte's  delightful  sketches. 
But  Hal  is  always  saying  :   "Brace up,  young  lady, 
and   read  Herbert  Spencer,   or  Arthur  Helps,    or 
Hammerton/'  and  my  regard  for   that   graceless 
brother  of  mine  is  so  great  that  I  try  to  please  him. 

Yes,  I  read  "  Prudence  Palfrey"  in  the  Atlantic. 
I  was  madly  in  love  with  Dillingham,  and  felt 
quite  angry  with  Mr.  Aldrich  for  upsetting  all  my 
hopes  and  plans   as   to  the  result.     A  lady  who 


134  AGNES  LEIGH. 

lives  near  us  said  she  saw  through  the  whole  story 
from  the  first,  and  thought  me  very  stupid  because 
I  was  unsuspecting  to  the  last.  I  told  Hal  about 
it  in  one  of  my  letters,  and  he  replied:  "Your 
friend  is  troubled  obviously  with  big  head.  I  don't 
believe  she  did  any  such  thing.  '  Prudence  Pal- 
frey' was  read  by  almost  every  man  in  college,  and 
the  denouement  was  a  genuine  surprise  to  all  of 
us."  I  don't  know  what  Hal  means  by  "big 
head,"  but  I  suppose  it  is  a  slang  phrase  at  Ann 
Arbor.  Hal  is  always  saying  things  that  I  don't 
understand,  and  when  I  remonstrate  with  him  he 
chucks  me  under  the  chin  and  says:  "It  is  all 
right,  sis.  I  am  your  brother,  you  know,  you 
know,  by  Jove."  When  Mr.  Sothern  was  here 
last  we  went  to  see  him,  and  Hal  has  never 
ceased  since  to  give  us  "  Dundreary  on  a  half 
shell,"  as  he  calls  it.  Indeed,  Hal  does  it  very 
well  for  an  "armature,"  as  Mrs.  Partington  would 
say. 

It  is  still  cold  here,  but  I  dare  say  the  birds 
are  clearing  their  throats  in  New  York,  and  ere 
many  weeks  you  will  begin  to  visit  Central  Park. 
We  have  a  park  here,  but  it  is  scarcely  to  be  com- 
pared with  yours.  I  love  New  York  dearly,  and 
often  indeed  have  I  passed  a  delightful  day  trip- 


AGNES  LEIGH.  135 

ping  through  the  byways  and  sailing  on  that  sweet 
little  lake  at  Central  Park. 

You  New  Yorkers  have  many  advantages  over 
us  Chicagoans.  We  have  no  Theodore  Thomas 
to  make  music  as  sweet  as  the  songs  of  angels  for 
us  to  listen  to,  in  a  fragrant  garden  glittering  as 
green  and  beautiful  under  the  gaslight  as  if  it  were 
a  little  section  of  fairy  land.  But  we  are  quite 
content,  and  so  long  as  we  get  a  glimpse  of  New 
York  occasionally  we  are  not  disposed  to  wish  our 
home  elsewhere  than  by  the  side  of  this  beautiful 
lake,  which  glistens  under  the  moonlight  as  I 
write,  like  a  sea  of  quicksilver,  and  calls  up  a 
recollection  of  all  the  gorgeous  scenery  which 
Charles  Warren  Stoddard  saw,  or  thought  he  saw, 
in  the  South  Sea  Islands.  What  a  writer  that  man 
is!  Have  you  read  "South  Sea  Idyls"?  If  not 
please  do  for  my  sake.  You  will  be  more  than  de- 
lighted, I  am  sure. 

By  the  way,  Hal  thinks  of  visiting  New  York  in 
July,  and  would  like  to  call  on  you.  I  haven't 
mentioned  our  correspondence  to  him  at  all,  and 
of  course  I  shouldn't  think  of  sending  him  to  see 
you,  unless  you  and  your  good  parents  fully  ap- 
prove. Have  you  any  objection  to  my  showing 
him  an  occasional  paragraph  in  your  letters  ? 


136  AGNES  LEIGH. 

Hal  is  waiting  to  take  me  to  dinner  and  then  to 
McVicker's.     So  I  must  therefore  close  "with  all 
regret  and  all  good  wishes,  and  so  good  night." 
Affectionately  yours, 

Charlotte. 


No.  24  Irving  Place, 
New  York,  May  5,  187 — 

Dear  Charlotte, — A  month  has  passed  since 
yours  of  April  5th  reached  New  York,  but  I  as- 
sure you  it  has  been  no  fault  of  mine  that  I  did 
not  reply  sooner.  We  have  been  to  Washington 
on  account  of  mamma's  health.  The  weather, 
contrary  to  your  anticipations,  has  not  been  very 
spring-like  here,  but  in  Washington  words  fail  to 
give  an  idea  of  how  very  beautiful  it  is  there 
already.  The  trees  are  clothed  in  their  spring 
suit  of  green,  the  grass  is  up  and  the  flowers  are 
blooming  as  generally  as  they  will  be  here  a  month 
from  now.  We  instructed  our  landlady  in  Irving 
Place  to  forward  all  letters  to  the  Arlington,  where 
we  were  stopping.  But  as  bad  luck  would  have  it, 
your  perfectly  charming  epistle  was  mislaid  by  a 
stupid  servant,  and  was  only  found  yesterday.  We 
returned  this  morning. 

It  is  hard  to  resist  the  temptation  to  say  some- 


AGNES  LEIGH.  137 

thing  about  Washington;  but  that  city  has  been 
written    about  until  everybody  knows  it  as  thor- 
oughly as  if  he   had    lived  there.      I  had  a  very 
delightful  time.     Papa  knows  a  great  many  news- 
paper   men,    and  also   many   members   of  Con- 
gress,  and    we  were  thus  afforded  opportunities, 
through  their  acquaintance  with  men  and  things, 
to  visit  the    White    House   and  other  interesting 
places,  and  to  see  more  of  each  than  is  usually 
accorded  to  the  casual  visitor.      I  have  seen  all  the 
celebrities,  but  after  all  they  are  men  like  papa, 
and  only  now  and  then  is  there  one  half  as  good 
looking. 

From  my  window  I  could  see  the  historic 
Potomac  winding  like  a  silver  ribbon  through  a 
beautiful  groundwork  of  glorious  green ;  also 
Arlington,  where  General  Lee  used  to  live,  Mun- 
son's  Hill  and  Fort  Stevens,  of  war  renown,  etc. 
Fairfax  Court  House  and  Bull  Run  are  not  far  off, 
but  they  are  not  visible  from  the  city  ;  at  least  so  I 
was  told.  One  of  my  pleasantest  experiences  was 
an  inspection  of  the  Capitol.  I  visited  it  under 
the  protection  of  an  enthusiastic  delegate  from  one 
of  the  territories.  Before  we  made  our  visit  he 
said  :  "  Do  you  know  the  frescoing  in  that  build- 
ing is  really  beautiful  ?     People  go  to  Rome  and 


138  AGNES  LEIGH. 

Grenada,  and  roll  their  eyes  like  dying  geese  over 
work  far  inferior  to  that  which  Mr.  Brumidi  has 
been  doing  up  there,  in  the  many  years  he  has 
been  at  work.  You  can  see  the  old  gentleman 
any  day  suspended  on  a  scaffold  and  busily  en- 
gaged in  adding  one  more  masterpiece  to  the  many 
contained  in  the  building.  He  is  quite  old  now, 
and  as  I  watch  him  in  his  declining  years  with 
frosted  head  and  beard  toiling  patiently  and  with 
cheerfulness,  I  recall  what  I  once  heard  Bishop 
Clarke,  of  Rhode  Island,  say  in  his  lecture,  '  The 
World  Moves,'  about  the  old  monks  laboring  un- 
ceasingly in  their  cloisters,  content  if  after  years 
of  weary  toil  they  could  give  the  world  another 
book.  Mr.  Brumidi  has  no  desire  for  fame.  He 
has  applied  his  life  and  his  genius  to  beautifying 
the  interior  of  the  Capitol,  and  it  will  be  his  monu- 
ment. Some  of  the  committee-rooms  which  have 
flowered  under  his  clever  pencil  are  magnificent." 
I  could  not  quite  reconcile  what  I  saw  with  the 
view  as  thus  expressed,  and  perhaps  papa  is  right 
in  saying  that  the  gentleman's  sentiments  are 
patriotic  and,  therefore,  to  his  credit,  but  that  his 
ideas  of  art  are  peculiarly  Western. 

How  did  you  enjoy  your  evening  at  McVicker's  ? 
I  hardly  know  what  to  say  about    meeting    Hal ; 


AGNES  LEIGH.  139 

though  I  should  dearly  like  to  meet  his  delightful 

sister.      We  will  talk  more  about  his  visit  anon — 

when  Hal  is  ready  to  come  East.     You  may  show 

him  such  portions  of  my  letters  as  your  own  good 

taste  may  approve. 

I  am  going  out  this  evening — to  the  Fifth  Avenue 

Theatre.     My  uncle  Sheridan,  who  joined    us   in 

Washington,  accompanied  us  to  New  York.      He 

is  a  South  Carolinian   and  very  nice.      He  is  only 

thirty  years  old,   being    papa's   youngest   brother. 

He  lives  at  home  in  Greenville,  S.  C,  on  the  old 

plantation  with  grandmamma  and   the  slaves,  the 

latter  now  happily  emancipated.     Uncle  Sheridan 

proposes  to  return  home  shortly.     It   is  his    first 

visit  on  this  side  of  Mason  and  Dixon's  line,  but  I 

scarcely  think  he  is  enjoying  it  a  bit  more  than  we 

enjoy  having  him  with  us.     With    all    respect   for 

Hal,  I  must  say  that  to  my  mind  uncle  Sheridan 

is  the  one  man  of  all    others.     Not  that  I  am  in 

love  with  him.      No,  indeed  !     But  I  would  be  if 

he  were  not  my  uncle.      I  can  assure  you  it  can  be 

said  of  him  as  Byron  said  of  uncle's  namesake  : 

"  Heaven  never  made  but  one  such  man, 
And  broke  the  die  in  casting  Sheridan." 

I  had  never  read  "  South  Sea  Idyls,"  but  I  have 
induced  papa  to  buy  the  book,  and  already  I  am 


140  AGNES  LE/GH. 

deep  in  the  delightful  story  about  "Chumming 
with  a  Savage."  I  will  learn  wisdom  from  your 
brother,  and  read  some  of  the  books  he  recom- 
mends. I  know  that  the  brother  of  so  sweet  a 
sister  must  have  excellent  taste.  All  of  Herbert 
Spencer  that  I  know  is  one  phrase  :  "In  its  ulti- 
mate essence  nothing  can  be  known."  I  should 
not  have  known  that  much  but  for  uncle  Sheridan. 
He  says  he  once  quoted  that  sentence  to  a  Yankee 
whom  he  met  in  Charleston,  and  the  fellow  said  : 
"Oh!  by  gosh  now,  that  ain't  so.  A  limburger 
cheese  can  be  known  in  its  ultimate  essence  or  its 
sooper-natural  essence  either."  But  I  don't  believe 
that  story.  Uncle  is  such  a  romancer  !  He  would 
tell  you  anything  if  he  thought  it  would  make  you 
laugh.  Besides,  he  does  not  like  the  Yankees,  or 
thinks  he  does  not.  He  admits,  however,  that  he  is 
finding  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  at  the  North  about 
as  they  are  elsewhere.  Here  he  is  now;  I  must  fly. 
Affectionately  and  sincerely  yours, 

Agnes. 


246  Wabash  Avenue, 
Chicago,  III.,  May  15,  187- 
My  Dear  Miss  Agnes, — There  are  a  great  many 
sweet  things  in  life.     A  poem,  a  song  or  a  flirtation 


AGNES  LEIGH.  141 

used  to  meet  my  views  very  well  in  that  respect; 
but  latterly  I  have  come  to  think  your  letters  better 
than  all  the  rest.  I  have  been  on  the  anxious  seat 
for  weeks,  and  had  feared  that  in  some  way  I  had 
offended  you.  But  your  letter  of  the  5th,  ex- 
plaining as  it  did  why  I  did  not  hear  from  you 
before,  sweetened  my  whole  existence.  All  day 
long  I  ran  about  the  house  singing  the  liveliest  airs 
and  reciting  bits  of  poetry  from  my  favorite  authors. 
Wasn't  it  Beranger  who  described  how  he  ran  up 
seven  pairs  of  stairs  in  the  brave  days  when  he  was 
twenty-one  ?  Well,  I  have  been  a  sort  of  female 
Beranger  ever  since  your  letter  came.  It  was  like 
the  dew  to  the  drooping  flower,  like  a  ray  of  sun- 
shine on  a  dismal  day,  like  moonlight  on  the 
lake.  Oh  !  darling,  it  was  everything  to  me,  your 
poor,  tender-hearted  little  friend.  I  am  beginning 
to  love  you  devotedly,  and  I  shall  certainly  send 
Hal  to  New  York  to  see  you.      You  ?nnst  meet 

him. 

I  was  much  interested  in  your  description  of 
the  sights  you  saw  at  Washington.  I  have  never 
been  in  that  city,  and  your  little  stories  entertained 
me  wonderfully. 

I  have  taken  quite  a  fancy  to  your  uncle  Sheri- 
dan and  shall  be  delighted  to  hear  more  of  him, 


142  AGNES  LEIGH. 

but  my  interest  in  him  is  as  nothing  compared 
with  my  burning  desire  to  see  you.  Indeed,  I 
find  that  I  care  very  little  for  men.  Looking  back 
across  an  expanse  of  every-day  experiences  I  descry 
here  and  there  a  friendship  with  men  that  I  would 
rather  not  have  erased,  but  I  can  think  of  no  one 
to  whom  my  heart  has  gone  out  fully  and  unre- 
servedly as  it  has  to  you.  I  have  never  been  in 
love  with  a  man,  which  may  account  for  my  fall- 
ing in  love  with  a  woman.  And  you  love  me  a 
little  in  return,  don't  you? 

Since  writing  you  before  I  have  been  having 
some  queer  experiences.  A  man,  old  enough  to 
be  my  father,  proposed  for  my  hand,  and  I  re- 
jected him,  of  course.  It  was  a  very  painful  affair 
to  me,  for  my  suitor  was  an  eligible  match  enough 
for  those  who  believe  in  the  May  and  December 
style  of  unions.  He  is  rich  and  has  always  been 
very  kind,  but  I  had  to  say  nay.  Poor  fellow  !  I 
hope  he  will  meet  with  better  fortune  next  time. 
Do  you  blame  me  ? 

I  have  just  received  a  jolly  letter  from  Hal.  He 
has  written  a  story  for  the  college  magazine.  He 
says  :  "Oh,  Lot,  if  I  could  only  moralize,  what  a 
chap  I  would  be  !  But  I  can't  be  wise  to  save  me, 
for  more  than  a  minute  at  a  time.     When  I  think 


AGNES  LEIGH.  143 

how  Thackeray  and  George  Eliot  spin  out  their 
wisdom  I  become  broken-hearted  straightway." 
Hal  writes  very  nicely,  though,  I  think,  if  he  is  my 
brother,  and  I  have  replied  as  follows  : 

"You  lament  that  you  cannot  moralize.  You 
do  better — you  let  your  characters  tell  their  own 
stories,  as  you  did  in  'Seeking  for  Bait,' and  do 
their  own  moralizing.  You  don't  have  to  stop 
every  now  and  then  to  give  them  a  lift  in  order  to 
prevent  your  productions  from  degenerating  into 
trash — as  too  many  do.  Take  my  advice,  my  big 
brother,  and  don't  try  to  drag  in  any  more  moral- 
izing than  you  can  help.  It  isn't  popular;  it  isn't 
in  good  form.  It  looks  as  if  there  were  a  defect 
in  the  plot  or  in  the  characters  when  so  many  side 
lights  are  necessary  to  help  the  actors  through; 
and,  moreover,  it  is  generally  a  clear  waste  of  am- 
munition, as  ninety  readers  out  of  every  hundred 
skip  the  moralizing  and  don't  bless  the  moralizer. 
I  maintain  that  it  isn't  fair  of  any  writer  who  sets 
out  to  tell  a  story  to  leave  his  characters  to  take 
care  of  themselves  while  he  indulges  in  little  di- 
gressions specially  designed  to  give  his  own  smart- 
ness an  airing.  It  is  in  bad  taste — it  is  disrespect- 
ful to  the  people  he  calls  into  being  to  give  them 
his   second    best   speeches,    and    to   keep  all    the 


144  AGNES  LEIGH. 

choicest  bits  for  his  own  private  speaking.  It  is 
egotistical ;  it  looks  as  if  he  couldn't  bear  to  have 
his  own  personality  thrown  into  the  shade,  even  by 
his  own  creations." 

Of  course  I  am  no  critic,  and  perhaps  the  dear 
fellow  will  laugh  at  my  assumption  of  wisdom, 
but  I  know  what  I  have  said  is  true,  and  laugh  or 
not  laugh,  Mr.  Hal  shall  have  a  bit  of  sisterly 
advice  and  encouragement. 

Don't  go  flying  off  again  and  leave  me  to  run  to 
seed,  as  you  did  before,  and  believe  me, 

Devotedly  thine, 

Charlotte. 


24  Irving  Place, 
New  York,  May  30,  187 — 

My  Dear  Charlotte, — Ever  since  your  delight- 
ful favor  of  the  15th  instant  reached  me  I  have 
been  on  the  go.  Uncle  Sheridan  only  started  for 
home  last  evening;  and  being  intent  on  seeing  as 
much  as  possible  in  a  given  time,  and  not  caring 
to  "play  a  lone  hand,"  as  he  expresses  it,  he  has 
been  whirling  me  from  theatre  to  concert,  from  con- 
cert to  opera,  and  from  opera  back  to  theatre. 
Even  my  Sundays  have  not  been  my  own,  for  he 
was  bent  on  hearing  Beecher  and  Frothingham, 


AGNES  LEIGH.  145 

and  could  do  nothing  without  his  "guide,  philos- 
opher and  friend, "  as  he  calls  me. 

Well,  he  has  gone,  and  I  hope  that  I  may  now 
be  able  to  do  my  share  of  letter-writing.  I  haven't 
much  to  say  this  time.  If  I  thought  you  would 
care  for  a  critique  on  the  plays  I  have  seen,  the 
concerts  I  have  attended  and  the  operas  I  have 
heard,  I  might  make  a  long  letter.  But  of  course 
you  see  the  New  York  papers,  and  after  such  clever 
writers  as  those  who  conduct  their  dramatic  and 
musical  departments  have  had  their  say,  anything 
I  might  feel  impelled  to  offer  would  sound  absurdly 
commonplace. 

I  felt  much  flattered  that  my  previous  letter 
should  make  you  so  happy,  and  I  despair  of  mak- 
ing proper  recognition  of  the  many  kind  words 
you  have  said  of  my  poor  missives. 

I  liked  the  extracts  from  your  letter  to  Hal.  I 
is  a  wise  view  to  take  of  the  matter,  and  if  he  really 
cannot  moralize  he  can  certainly  do  no  better  than 
accept  your  idea  about  it.  As  for  myself,  I  care 
more  as  a  general  thing  for  the  moralizing  in  the 
books  I  read  than  for  plots  or  incidents.  But  I  am 
not  clever  enough  to  argue  the  question  with  you. 
I  should  be  glad  to  see  his  story  when  it  is  printed. 

You  did  quite  right  about  rejecting  your  ancient 

]  o 


146  AGNES  LEIGH. 

suitor.     The  poet  probably  had  such  a  match  as 

your  union  with  the  old  gentleman  in  view  when  he 

wrote: 

"  Love  is  like  the  rose; 
Oft  seeing  scarce  a  month, 
Ere  it  withers  where  it  grows." 

Girls  who  marry  old  men  because  they  do  not 
quite  hate  them,  under  the  impression  that  love 
may  come,  generally  make  a  mistake  at  once  fool- 
ish and  wicked.  As  uncle  Sheridan  says,  the  aim 
of  young  ladies  should  not  be  to  get  married.  He 
holds  that  marriage  is  a  great  institution,  and  with- 
out it  there  would  be  a  great  depletion  of  the  cen- 
sus (sage  man !).  But  he  says  it  has  its  drawbacks; 
and  no  person,  male  or  female,  should  embark  in 
such  a  serious  business  unless  impelled  by  an  in- 
ward force  so  overwhelming  that  nothing  but  mar- 
riage will  keep  it  in  abeyance.  This  inward  force, 
he  says,  is  love  (true  love),  and  the  only  quality 
that  will  endure  through  life's  vicissitudes  and  con- 
tinue until  death.  I  think  myself  that  about  half 
the  people  who  marry  are  worse  off  than  they  would 
have  been  single.  I  have  a  theory  that  somewhere 
in  this  world  there  is  a  mate  for  each  of  us — a  mate 
fitted  by  temperament,  education  and  natural  tend- 
encies— to  make  the  other  supremely  happy. 

"  What  avails  it,"  asks  Emerson,  *'  to  fight  with 


AGNES  LEIGH.  147 

the  eternal  laws  of  mind,  which  adjust  the  relation 
of  all  persons  to  each  other,  by  the  mathematical 
measure  of  their  havings  and  beings  ? "  He  con- 
tinues :  "Gertrude  is  enamored  of  Guy;  how 
high,  how  artistocratic,  how  Roman  his  mien  and 
manners  !  To  live  with  him  were  life  indeed,  and 
no  purchase  is  too  great;  and  heaven  and  earth  are 
moved  to  that  end.  Well,  Gertrude  has  Guy;  but 
what  now  avails  how  high,  how  aristocratic,  how 
Roman  his  mien  and  manners  if  his  heart  and  aims 
are  in  the  Senate,  in  the  theatre  and  in  the  bil- 
liard-room, and  she  has  no  aims,  no  conversations 
that  can  enchant  her  lord  ?  He  shall  have  his  own 
society.  We  can  love  nothing  but  nature. 
Nothing,"  he  concludes,  ''is  more  deeply  pun- 
ished than  the  neglect  of  the  affinities." 

The  great  trouble  seems  to  be,  however,  that  our 
affinities,  not  being  distinguishable  by  strawberry 
marks  on  the  left  arm,  or  anything  equally  tangible, 
we  miss  them  in  the  crowd,  and  such  of  us  as 
marry  take  a  great  risk.  If  we  don't  get  the  wrong 
mate  it  is  a  wonder;  and  I  am  actually  astonished 
that  all  marriages  are  not  misfits.  But  then  we  do 
not  know  how  few  of  them  are  successful.  Pride 
keeps  many  tongues  still.  But  we  know  from  those 
who  will  talk   that  the  hand   is    given  where  the 


148  AGNES  LEIGH. 

heart  can  never  be  in  its  entirety  oftener  than  it  is 
pleasant  for  fledgelings  like  you  and  me  to  contem- 
plate, in  view  of  our  liability  to  find  ourselves  sail- 
ing on  a  sea  of  connubial  glory,  "at  no  distant 
day,"  as  the  newspapers  say. 

I  hope  I  do  not  bore  you  with  my  long  letters. 
If  I  do,  be  frank  and  say  so,  and  I  will  make  them 

briefer. 

Affectionately  yours, 

Agnes. 

Miss  Charlotte  Heywood, 

Chicago,  111. 


246  Wabash  Avenue, 
Chicago,  III.,  June  20,  187 — 

My  Own  Darling, — Yours  of  the  30th  ultimo 
found  me  ill  with  periostitis,  which  has  made  me 
your  insolvent  debtor  until  now.  I  have  been 
utterly  unable  to  use  my  right  hand  for  three 
weeks,  and  even  now  I  respond  at  the  risk  of  a 
relapse.  I  can  only  stand  the  pain  long  enough 
to  jot  down  a  line  or  two  to  assure  you  of  my 
heartfelt  gratitude  for  your  most  welcome  letter. 
I  am  almost  frantic  because  my  illness  will  prevent 
me  on  this  occasion  from  answering  you  even  as 
well   as   usual — and   that  is  not  saying  anything 


AGNES  LEIGH.  149 

remarkable.  I  will  make  a  fresh  attempt,  how- 
ever, as  soon  as  possible. 

Hal  writes  me  that  he  is  going  to  New  England 
with  Fred  Ballantyne,  a  college  chum,  and  tells 
me  to  address  him  at  Rye  Beach,  N.  H.,  after  July 
i  st.  I  have  been  quoting  extracts  from  your  letters 
in  my  epistles  to  him,  and  he  is  very  anxious  to 
meet  you.      May  I  write  to  him  to  call  on  you  ? 

My  wrist  aches,  so  I  shall  be  obliged  to  finish 
this  letter  to-morrow,  if  I  can.  If  not  then — I  dare 
not  set  a  time.  Perhaps  I  had  better  mail  this 
much  at  once,  and  have  it  off  my  mind.  Mean- 
time allow  me  to  assure  you  that 

"  There's  not  an  hour  of  day  or  dreaming  night  but  I  am 
with  thee ; 
There's  not  a  wind  but  whispers  of  thy  name  ; 
There's  not  a  flower  that  sleeps  beneath  the  moon 
But  in  its  hues  or  fragrance  tells  a  tale  of  thee." 

Fondly  thine, 

Charlotte. 
Miss  Agnes  Leigh,  New  York. 

P.  S. — I  must  positively  leave  Chicago  for  a  time 
and  seek  much-needed  rest.  I  will  answer  your 
letter — such  a  charming  letter  it  was,  too — imme- 
diately on  my  return.  As  I  don't  know  exactly 
where  I  shall  be,  I  will  relieve  you  of  the  task  of 
writing  until  you  hear  from  me  again,  though  I 


150  AGNES  LEIGH. 

shall  almost  die  in  the  absence  of  your  exquisite 
letters.  My  dear  aunt  Sarah,  who  is  my  only 
living  relative  except  Hal,  proposes  taking  me 
into  Ohio  for  a  breath  of  pure  air.  Dear  Aunty  is 
an  Ohioan,  and  she  divides  her  faith  in  the  cura- 
tive properties  of  the  Ohio  atmosphere  equally  with 
her  belief  with  the  efficacy  of  cold  water,  which 
latter  she  maintains  has  nearly  cured  my  wrist. 

C.  H. 

Masters  was  really  ill,  and  was  going  home  to 
Cortland  for  a  fortnight,  and  he  could  not  affoid 
to  have  any  letters  from  strange  young  ladies 
passing  through  the  hands  of  the  Cortland  post- 
master, Mr.  Breitman  Van  Wormer,  father  of  Miss 
Harriet. 

246  Wabash  Avenue, 
Chicago,  III.,  July  8,  187 — 

My  Sweet  Darling, — I  have  to-day  returned 
fresh  and  invigorated  from  a  sojourn  at  Spring- 
field, Ohio.  We  stopped  there  by  chance,  and 
found  the  little  old-fashioned  city  so  delightful  that 
we  took  up  our  residence  at  the  Lagonda  House, 
and  lived  there  like  princesses  of  the  realm  until 
yesterday. 


AGNES  LEIGH.  151 

Recurring  to  yours  of  May  30th,  which  my  hate- 
ful malady  prevented  me  from  answering  at  length, 
I  must  first  scold  you  a  little  for  your  closing  para- 
graph.    You  say: 

"I  hope  I  do  not  bore  you  with  my  long  letters. 
If  I  do  be  frank  and  say  so,  and  I  will  make  them 
briefer. " 

I  think,  my  dear  Agnes,  if  you  only  knew  how 
much  real  good  your  letters  do  me  ;  how  much 
better  and  happier  and  stronger  and  less  lonesome 
I  have  been  since  our  correspondence  began,  in- 
stead of  expressing  any  fear  of  my  being  wearied 
you  would  thank  God  for  having  given  you  so 
much  power  to  do  good.  I  remember  how,  when 
I  was  a  child  at  home,  my  mother  used  to  come 
softly  into  my  room  at  night  while  she  thought  I 
slept ;  and,  as  she  bent  lovingly  down  to  drop  a 
tender  kiss  on  my  little  brown  face,  she  would  gent- 
ly whisper  :  "  May  Heaven  make  my  child  a  bless- 
ing !  "  And  as  I  read  your  letters  and  gather 
strength  and  courage  from  their  cheering  words, 
the  thought  often  comes  to  me  that  your  mother, 
too,  has  prayed  that  you  might  live  to  be  a  bless- 
ing to  others.  And  I  say  to  myself,  "  That  prayer 
has  been  answered."  Whether  I  reply  to  your 
letters  as  they  should  be  answered  or  not,  of  this 


152  AGNES  LEIGH. 

one  thing  you  may  be  sure  ;  I  do  appreciate  and 
shall  always  be  very  grateful  for  all  your  kind 
efforts  to  amuse,  instruct  and  help  me.  I  remem- 
ber that  one  morning  I  came  down  to  breakfast 
feeling  cold  and  cross  and  not  well  disposed  to- 
ward my  fellow-creatures.  A  letter  from  you  was 
awaiting  me,  and  as  I  read  it  a  glow  of  kindliness, 
a  gushing  desire  to  shake  hands  with  everybody 
and  to  wish  all  a  merry  Christmas,  came  over  me  ; 
just  the  sort  of  feeling  we  experience  after  reading 
Dickens'  genial  sketches.  Make  your  letters 
briefer?     No,  ma'am,  if  you  love  me. 

I  have  just  received  a  letter  from  Hal,  some  ex- 
tracts from  which  I  will  give  you,  since  you  will 
find  his  writing  more  interesting  than  mine.  He 
says,  under  date  of  Rye  Beach,  July  5th  : 

"My  Dear  Lot, — I  came  up  here  from  Boston 
a  week  ago.  I  like  the  place  amazingly  as  a  place, 
but  so  far  as  my  experience  enables  me  to  judge 
there  is  an  infinite  space  for  improvement  in  the 
hotels.  I  have  taken  up  my  brief  abode  at  the 
Leamington,  the  leading  caravansary  of  the  place. 
I  can't  repress  a  sigh  when  I  contemplate  in 
imagination  what  the  Farragut,  the  Sea  View 
House  and  the  other  fashionable  hostelries  must  be, 
with  the  Leamington  occupying  the    pinnacle  of 


AGNES  LEIGH.  153 

popular  favor.  I  engaged  a  room  by  telegraph 
before  leaving  Boston,  and  on  arriving  about 
ii  p.m.  was  ushered  into  my  palatial  quarters.  In 
the  matter  of  proximity  to  heaven  my  room  was 
almost  sublime  ;  but  at  this  point  all  relevancy  to 
the  superb  and  grand  ingloriously  ends.  Miserably 
furnished,  with  two  beds,  on  one  of  which  a  stranger 
here,  like  myself,  had  stretched  his  weary  legs,  the 
room  was  not  particularly  enticing.  However,  I 
was  tired  and  sleepy,  and  my  room-mate,  who  had 
not  yet  surrendered  himself  to  the  embraces  of  the 
drowsy  god,  proving  of  a  loquacious  and  enter- 
taining turn  of  mind,  I  got  along  very  comfortably 
until  sleep  weighed  my  eyelids  down,  and  I  fell  to 
dreaming  pleasant  visions,  under  the  soporific  in- 
fluence of  the  dashing  waters'  music,  as  the  waves 
came  softly  breaking  on  the  shore,  scarcely  ten 
rods  from  my  window.  The  table  at  the  Leam- 
ington does  not  in  any  manner  rival  that  of  the 
Sherman  House  or  the  Grand  Pacific.  The  coffee 
is  weak  and  muddy,  the  steak  is  tough,  the  mack- 
erel salter  than  the  tears  of  old  Neptune  himself, 
and  the  attendance  despicable.  The  dining-room 
reminded  me  of  a  circus.  I  removed  the  disfigured 
bodies  of  four  flies  which  had  lain  down  their  lives 
as  a  sacrifice  at  some  time  when  the  wheaten  grits 


154  AGNES  LEIGH. 

in  which  I  found  them  were  hot  and  uncomfort- 
able, before  I  could  proceed  satisfactorily  with  my 
frugal  meal.  From  all  this  you  will  correctly  infer 
that  I  did  not  achieve  at  the  Leamington  that  easy 
and  pronounced  success  which  usually  attends  my 
gastronomic  efforts,  and  that  when  I  passed  out 
from  its  venerable  walls  to  go  and  seek  Ballantyne 
at  his  mother's  dainty  cottage,  my  feelings  were 
akin  to  those  entertained  by  the  warriors  of  old, 
who,  making  unsuccessful  forays  on  the  domains  of 
adjacent  rulers,  were  skinned  alive  in  reality,  as  I 
was  in  a  pecuniary  sense,  and  had  very  little  done 
to  make  them  happy  in  return. 

"  But  leaving  the  hotel  and  getting  out-of-doors 
Rye  Beach,  being  a  thing  of  beauty,  becomes  a 
joy  forever.  I  daily  turn  my  idle  footsteps  toward 
the  beach,  and,  lingering  long,  watch  the  rolling 
waters  which  break  soft  and  low  on  her  sandy 
shores,  as  if  in  respect  for  her  venerable  years. 

"When  Ballantyne  was  in  Naples  last  year,  he 
worked  out  a  theory  in  verse,  that  he  could  hear 
the  curfew  bells  in  his  native  England,  and  having 
had  the  good  fortune  to  get  his  '  pome '  printed 
in  the  New  York  Home  Journal,  he  asks  me  to  clip 
and  send  it  along.      Here  it  is  : 

"  '  A  grand  old  hymn  sang  those  village  bells, 
Which  I  heard  in  the  golden  past ; 


AGNES  LEIGH.  155 

Their  cadence  was  mellow,  but  clear  and  high, 
And  I  hear  them  again  'neath  the  starlit  sky  ! 
And  a  spell  o'er  my  soul  is  cast. 

I  stand  again  midst  whispering  trees, 

And  their  murmur  a  story  tells 
Of  wonderful  valor,  of  love  and  fame, 
While  I  listen  with  longings  too  sweet  to  name 

To  the  song  of  those  evening  bells. 

There  are  thoughts  I  fancied  were  gone  for  aye, 
But  they  come  trooping  back  to-night  ; 

There  are  unspoken  hopes  and  visions  rare, 

A  locket  of  gold  and  a  ringlet  of  hair 
And  a  face  of  wondrous  light. 

Loved  forms  return  at  this  curfew  hour, 
And  dreams  which  ended  in  sadness  ; 
Old  memories,  sweeter  than  breath  of  June, 
Scent  of  faded  flowers  and  a  long  lost  tune, 
Which  chasten  my  hours  of  gladness. 

Ring  out,  oh  !  bells  of  the  by-gone  years, 

Your  voices  are  dearer  to  me 
Than  all  musical  strains  on  earth  beside, 
As  your  mellow  tones  reach  me  at  eventide 

From  over  the  shimmering  sea.' 

"  You  must  excuse  the  appearance  of  this  letter. 
I  am  writing  with  what  Sam  Weller  would  call  a 
soft-nibbed  pen  ;  my  fingers  are  as  far  from  pliable 
as  a  patent  poker;  which  fact,  combined  with  the 
circumstance  that  too  many  Rye  Beach  cigars  have 
destroyed  my  usually  good  nerve,  ought  to  account 
for  any  sins,  either  caligraphical  or  rhetorical. 
Moreover,  I  am  writing  in  a  hurry,  while  dinner  is 
preparing,  and  there  are  many  conditions  about 
me  not  conducive  to  letter-inditing.  Through  the 
open  window  I  plainly   hear  the  waves  pounding 


156  AGNES  LEIGH. 

melodiously  and  regularly  on  the  beach  beyond  ; 
the  wind,  which  blows  freshly  from  the  sea,  comes 
laden  with  a  wealth  of  fragrance  in  which  the  odors 
of  clover  bloom  and  new  mown  hay  are  blended 
with  the  saltness  ;  a  lively  brook  babbles  hard  by, 
and  seems  to  whisper  sweet  stories  of  ease  and 
idleness  to  all  who  listen  ;  the  birds  sing,  the  flies 
buzz — and  bite  too,  for  that  matter — and  the  thin 
gray  clouds  drift  lazily  across  the  serenest  of  all 
possible  skies.  Who  could  escape  feeling  indolent 
under  the  influence  of  all  this  ?     Certainly  not  I. 

"  Midnight. — I  have  just  returned  from  a  hop  at 
the  Farragut  House,  and  will  add  a  line  to  the 
above  and  send  my  letter  down-stairs  to  go  off  in 
the  early  mail.  Your  brother  Hal,  as  you  may 
infer,  does  not  intend  to  rise  with  the  lark  to-mor- 
row morning,  sister  dear. 

"  Do  not  think  I  have  forgotten  about  Miss 
Leigh.  I  have  not,  and  I  hope  your  next  letter 
will  convey  permission  for  me  to  call  on  her  when 
I  pass  through  New  York  en  route  to  Chicago, 
about  the  12th.  But  I  have  found  a  new  divinity, 
and  have,  of  course,  man  fashion,  been  making  my- 
self agreeable.  I  had  some  excuse  for  so  doing,  as 
she  is  undeniably  pretty  and  cultivated.  And  pretty 
and    cultivated    young    ladies    are    like    Christian 


AGNES  LEIGH.  157 

charity — a  rarity  under  the  sun — particularly  under 
the  sun  here  at  Rye  Beach.  The  number  of 
simpering,  addle-pated  and  shallow-minded  girls 
is  simply  heart-rending.  But  you  find  them 
everywhere. 

"  '  They're  like  the  poor — they're  always  with  us  ; 
Burrs  on  the  coat-tails  of  society 
Which  won't  be  brushed  away.' 

"  I  am  sorely  stricken  with  Miss  Julia  Twombly, 

of  Northampton,   Mass.,  however — my  partner  at 

to-night's  ball.      She  is  actually   '  half  human,  half 

divine,'  like  Dr.  Holland's  specimen   woman.      I 

am  afraid  I  flirted  with  her  in  a  most  outrageous 

fashion.     She  recited  Shelley  to  me,  and  I,  in  the 

role  of  a  blase  man  of  fashion  claiming  to  be  thirty 

years  old,   responded  by  talking  about  things  of 

twenty  years  ago  and  cynically  quoting  Bret  Harte's 

pretty  verse  : 

"  '  Then  my  friend  was  a  hero  and  then 
My  girl  was  an  angel.     In  fine, 
I  drank  buttermilk  ;  for  at  ten 
Faith  asks  less  to  aid  her  than  when, 
At  thirty,  we  doubt  over  wine.' 

"She  seemed  to  pity  me,  and  rather  regretted,  I 

think,  that  I  am  not  a  total  abstinence  man,  like 

her  good  neighbors  up  in  Massachusetts.      At  all 

events,   she  seemed   to  like  me  very  well,   and  I 

promise  myself  much  pleasure  in  her  society  during 


158  AGNES  LEIGH. 

the  remainder  of  my  stay.  Oh,  Lot,  she  is  wonder- 
fully nice  and  exasperatingly  clever !  Now,  don't 
blame  me  for  faltering  in  my  allegiance  to  your  un- 
known seraph,  Miss  Leigh.  You  know  I  cannot  re- 
sist the  temptation  to  make  the  most  of  a  bright  real- 
ity, even  if  you  have  fired  my  soul  with  your  praises 
of  one  who  at  best  is  as  yet  a  mere  abstraction. 

"  However,  if  your  rara  avis  will  permit  me  to 
call    on   her,  I    will  straightway  transform    myself 
into  a  pink    of  propriety;  and  if  she  pleases  me, 
will  forswear  flirtations  forever  and  a  day,  and  be  as 
faithful  and  true  to  her  as  the  shadow  that  she  casts. 

"You  will,  I   know,    regard  this  episode  with 

Miss   Twombly  as  perfectly  natural,  for  I    am    a 

disciple  of  the  stranger  in  '  Lucille/  who  says  : 

"  '  Man's  life  is  short,  and  the  youth  of  a  man 
Is  yet  shorter.     I  wish  to  enjoy  what  I  can, 
A  sunset,  if  only  a  sunset  be  near  ; 
A  moon,  such  as  this,  if  the  weather  be  clear  ; 
A  good  dinner,  if  hunger  come  with  it;  good  wine 
If  I'm  thirsty  ;  a  fire  if  I'm  cold  ;  and,  in  fine, 
If  a  woman  is  pretty,  to  me  'tis  no  matter 
Be  she  blonde  or  brunette,  so  she  let  me  look  at  her. ' 

"While  I  am  home  comparatively  early,  like  a 
pious  brother,  and  scratching  away  for  your 
edification,  like  a  devoted  one,  the  festivities  still 
continue  at  the  Farragut  House.  The  busy  feet  of 
the  dancers  ceased  half  an  hour  ago,  but  the  grand 


AGNES  LEIGH.  159 

piano,  under  the  skillful  touch  of  somebody's 
pliant  fingers,  is  making  itself  heard.  What  more 
delicious  than  music  on  the  midnight  air?  As  I 
write  there  comes  to  my  ears  amid  a  myriad  of 
variations,  Balfe's  old,  but  ever  sweet  refrain, 
'  Then  You'll  Remember  Me.'  Just  now  an  un- 
broken strain  reached  me,  but  anon  some  truant 
wave,  more  boisterous  than  those  it  followed, 
drowns  the  piano's  tones,  and  the  music  of  the 
one  is  lost  in  the  complaining  of  the  other.  At  this 
moment  the  music  of  the  sea  alternates  with  the 
strains  floating  over  from  the  Farragut,  and  the 
latter  are  heard  only  at  intervals,  even  as  a  change- 
ful wind  brings  plainly  to  our  ears,  then  wafts 
them  from  us  altogether,  the  tuneful  chimes  of 
distant  wedding  bells.  I  wish  you  were  here  to 
enjoy  the  beautiful  moon,  the  mingled  music  of 
the  waves,  and  that  Farragut  House  piano,  and  the 
cool,  delicious  breeze.  It  would  put  the  roses  into 
your  cheeks  to  be  here,  even  if  you  did  keep  as 
ridiculous  hours  as  your 

"  Ever  loving,  Hal." 

If  you  love  me,  Agnes  darling,  let  Hal  call  and 

see  you.     I  await  a  reply  with  the  highest  hopes. 

Always  your  own, 

Lottie. 

Miss  Agnes  Leigh,  New  York. 


Blank  JVo.    1. 


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AGNES  LEIGH.  161 

As  the  reader  may  surmise,  Masters  has  been 
falling  in  love  with  Miss  Leigh  more  and  more 
deeply  as  the  days  have  run  into  weeks  and  the 
weeks  into  months.  His  tactics  looking  to  his 
gaining  an  audience  with  her  have  fallen  to  the 
ground.  The  brother  Hal  stroke  of  policy  was  a 
good  one,  but  it  has  failed.  He  has  determined, 
therefore,  to  tear  away  the  veil  behind  which  he 
has  been  hiding,  and  appear  to  his  deceived  and 
trustful  correspondent  in  his  true  colors.  He 
purposes  doing  this  by  letter. 

' '  Miss  Van  Wormer  and  my  parents'  pet  schemes 
can  go  to  the  dogs  for  aught  I  care,"  he  said; 
"marry  Miss  Leigh  I  will  if  she  will  overlook  the 
astounding  deception  I  have  practiced.  It  was  all 
for  love,"  he  ejaculates,  as  he  paces  up  and  down 
his  room.     Then  follows  this  bit  of  rhapsody  : 

"  Oh  !  woman,  woman  !  You  impale  us  on  a 
lance  as  long  as  life.  Had  Fate  not  willed  it  other- 
wise, we  might  detect  the  incipient  shaft  lurking 
beneath  the  smile  which  wreathes  thy  baby  lips,  or 
see  it  darting  from  the  dancing  eyes  of  maid  and 
matron  fair.  As  it  is,  we  dangle  near  thee  always — 
ti 


162  AGNES  LEIGH. 

pierced  through  the  heart — yet  all  oblivious  how 
and  when  you  dealt  the  painless  blow  that  makes 
man  thine  forever." 

As  Masters  walks  to  and  fro  you  notice  that 
his  face  wears  a  look  betokening  physical  suf- 
fering. Scrutinizing  him  carefully  in  the  dimly 
lighted  room,  you  will  perceive  that  he  carries 
his  right  hand  in  his  vest.  He  is  suffering  again 
from  an  attack  of  periostitis,  and  his  right  arm  is 
useless.  Accordingly  he  has  sent  by  an  American 
District  messenger  for  his  cousin,  Tom  Somerby, 
of  the  World,  once  aptly  described  by  George 
Lanigan  as  "a  chain  lightning  telegrapher  and  a 
thundering  good  newspaper  man,"  to  come  in  and 
act  as  his  amanuensis.  Tom  and  he  were  at  school 
together  at  Amherst  in  their  boyhood,  but  though 
living  near  together  in  New  York  they  see  very 
little  of  each  other.  They  have  not  met  in  six 
months  ;  but  Jack  thought  of  Tom  immediately 
in  casting  about  in  his  mind  for  some  suitable 
confidant,  and  sent  for  him. 

"Tom,"  said  Jack,  when  the  former  had  arrived 
and  they  were  lighting  their  cigars,    "  I've  sent  for 


AGNES  LEIGH.  163 

you  to  do  a  little  confidential  writing  for  me.  You 
know  all  about  Miss  Van  Wormer.  She's  a  good 
girl  and  all  that ;  but,  confound  it,  I  have  no 
heart  to  marry  her.  She  is  too  good  for  me.  In- 
deed, Tom,  I  am  a  sad  dog.  And  what  I  want 
you  to  do  is  to  write  a  letter  from  dictation.  Have 
you  any  objection  ?  " 

"  Not  the  slightest,"  replied  Tom. 

"Thanks,"  continued  Masters.  "Help  your- 
self to  pens,  ink  and  paper  and  go  in." 

"All  ready,"  said  Tom,  after  some  little  de- 
lay. 

"Never  mind  the  date  or  the  address.  I'll 
manage  to  scrawl  those  afterward.     Now: 

"  '  I  received  your  telegram,  and  it  found  me  so 
ill  that  I  cannot  write.  Consequently  I  must  dic- 
tate this  letter,  which  will  be  sad  enough  before 
it  is  finished,  to  an  amanuensis  who  will  betray  no 
secrets,  unless  those  who  are  unlikely  to  write  for 
me 

"Hold  on,  Jack,"  interrupted  Tom,  "this 
seems  rather  loose  jointed." 

"Let  me  look  at  it."  returned  Jack.      "I  am 


164  AGNES  LEIGH. 

not  accustomed  to  dictating,  and  have,  no  doubt, 
made  a  mess  of  it." 

Somerby  handed  the  page  to  Masters,  and  the 
latter,  holding  it  awkwardly  in  his  left  hand, 
turned  livid  and  nearly  fell  to  the  floor  as  his 
eyes  rested  on  the  handwriting.  Tom  sat  gazing 
into  space  and  was  scarcely  prepared  for  the  ques- 
tion hoarsely  uttered  by  Masters: 

"Thomas  Somerby,  have  you  any  female  cor- 
respondents ? " 

"That  is  a  leading  question,"  answered  Tom, 
"and  I " 

"As  you  value  your  life  answer  me  truthfully; 
or  by  heaven  I'll " 

Masters  went  no  further.  Somerby  was  thor- 
oughly frightened.  He  thought  Masters  had  taken 
leave  of  his  senses,  and  that  he  might  as  well 
humor  him.     So  he  answered  quickly: 

"Yes,  I  have  one.  Advertised  for  her  over 
the  name  of  'Agnes  Leigh,' last  March,  when  I 
was  out  with  Miss  Harrison  ;  and  she's  a  ripper, 
too.  Now  that  Dolly  and  I  have  made  up  I  must 
saw  off  this  correspondence  somehow.     The  girl 


AGNES  LEIGH.  165 

has  a  brother  who  threatens  to  come  up  here  from 
Rye  Beach  to  see  me,  confound  him!  But  I've 
fixed  his  flint  with  a  telegram." 

Masters  tore  up  and  down  the  room.  It  was 
touching  to  behold  his  agony.     Finally  he  said: 

"Tom,  pardon  my  rudeness  just  now.  What- 
ever happens  we  will  be  friends — we  will  be  true 
to  each  other.      Won't  we  ?  " 

"  We  will,"  said  Somerby,  wondering  what  was 


coming. 


''  Give  me  your  hand,  Tom — dear,  good  old 
friend.     We  are  in  a  bad  box." 

And  seizing  his  cousin's  extended  hand,  the 
elegant  Jack  Masters  hid  his  face  on  Somerby's 
shoulder,  and  said,  in  a  voice  that  came  within 
a  hair's  breadth  of  petrifying  the  latter  young 
gentleman  where  he  stood, 

"Tom,  I  am — Miss  Charlotte — Heywood,  of 
Chicago  !  " 

A  profound  silence  prevailed  for  a  moment, 
which  was  broken  at  last  by  Somerby,  who  ob- 
served, in  solicitous  tones: 

"  I  trust,  Jack,  that  brother  Hal  is  well  !" 


STAGE  COACHING. 


STAGE  COACHING. 

IT  was  a  magnificent  afternoon,  when,  on  the 
occasion  of  my  last  visit  to  the  White  Moun- 
tains, the  train  which  had  borne  us  on  through  the 
beautiful  Pemigewasset  Valley,  and  over  a  tract  of 
country  unequaled  in  the  world  for  its  quiet  gran- 
deur and  beauty,  halted  at  Littleton.  There  was  a 
grand  debarking  here,  and  each  started  for  his 
particular  destination  by  some  one  of  the  stage 
coaches  which  ply  between  Littleton  and  the 
numerous  summer  resorts  scattered  among  the 
mountains.  With  some  twenty  others  I  took  pas- 
sage on  the  stage  destined  for  the  Profile  House, 
and  was  fortunate  enough  to  secure  a  seat  by  the 
side  of  the  driver.  He  proved  to  be  a  pleasant- 
mannered  old  gentleman,  with  clear  gray  eyes 
which  twinkled  merrily  whenever  he  spoke.  He 
was  quite  intelligent,  withal,  and  had  that  inde- 
scribable something  about  him  which  makes  one 
feel  when  he  encounters  men  of  his  kind  that  if 
accident  had  placed  them  in  some  higher  walk  in 


170  STAGE  COACHING. 

life  they  had  within  them  the  elements  to  adorn 
that  higher  plane,  even  as  my  friend  adorned  the 
box  and  lent  dignity  to  the  coach  and  four  over 
which  he  presided.  He  was  decidedly  entertain- 
ing, and  directed  my  attention  to  different  points 
in  the  landscape  which  had  been  rendered  classic 
by  what  Edward  Everett,  Thomas  Starr  King, 
Bayard  Taylor  and  others  had  written  about  them. 
And  he  informed  me  with  a  great  deal  of  impress- 
iveness  when  alluding  to  either  of  the  gentlemen 
that  "He  was  a  man  that  had  the  sand  in  him." 
I  had  no  definite  idea  of  his  meaning,  but  I  did 
not  see  fit  to  question  him  as  to  the  exact  definition 
of  the  term.  There  are  certain  expressions  met 
with  quite  often  which  are  beyond  the  ken  of  the 
analyst,  but  which  have  a  significance  after  all, 
like  Mr.  Peggotty's  "Well,  I'mgormed,"  and  may 
properly  be  accepted  unquestioned. 

When  we  had  driven  down  to  the  village  of 
Franconia,  my  friend  pointed  out  several  features 
of  the  country  which  had  been  described,  and  gave 
me  an  outline  of  some  of  the  originals  of  the  char- 
acters  figuring    in  a   series   of  books   called   the 


STAGE  COACHING.  171 

"  Beechnut  Stories,"  which  I  remember,  and  many 
of  my  readers  will  remember,  as  a  very  amusing 
and  instructive  part  of  our  early  reading.  After  we 
left  Franconia  and  began  to  climb  the  rugged  hills 
which  culminate  in  the  mountains  beyond,  prog- 
ress was  not  over  rapid.  My  entertainer,  there- 
fore, at  the  end  of  a  few  miles  had  gone  over  New 
Hampshire  matters  pretty  thoroughly,  and  for  some 
time  we  rode  on  in  silence.  Then,  with  a  view 
evidently  of  finding  a  respectable  peg  on  which  to 
hang  some  further  intelligence,  he  observed  : 

"  I  suppose  you  hail  from  Boston  way  ?  " 

"No.     From  New  York,"  I  answered. 

"Now,  you  don't  know  how  glad  I  am  of 
that,"  said  he,  gleefully.  "I  say,  neighbor,  you 
don't  know  Judge  Proudfit,  of  Poughkeepsie,  do 
you  ?  " 

"Oh  !  yes,  quite  well  by  reputation,  and  I  have 
met  him  personally  once  or  twice  in  a  professional 
capacity." 

"Well,  I  want  to  know  !  So  you  know  the 
Judge,"  he  went  on.  "  He's  a  pretty  fair  sort  of 
a  man,   neighbor ;  a  pretty  goldarned  sight   of  a 


172  STAGE  COACHING. 

man.  He's  a  man  that  has  got  the  sand  in  him, 
or  I'm  a  cow,"  and  he  wagged  his  head  sagely  and 
seemed  to  be  musing. 

To  all  of  this  I  assented,  for  the  gentleman  in 
question  is  one  of  the  most  eminent  men  in  New 
York.  I  should  have  inquired  into  the  relations 
existing  between  those  two,  so  far  apart  in  a  social 
sense,  and  apparently  with  paths  in  life  running  in 
almost  opposite  directions ;  but  my  companion 
seemed  to  wish  to  change  the  subject,  and  so  con- 
tenting myself  with  the  thought  that  probably  the 
Judge  came  to  the  mountains  often,  and  had  been 
gracious  to  the  old  gentleman,  I  again  relapsed 
into  silence.  This  had  the  effect  of  starting  him 
off  on  a  new  subject,  and  he  related  the  following  : 

"It  must  be  nigh  onto  thirty  years  ago  that  I 
went  down  to  New  York  to  see  an  aunt  of  mine. 
I  was  a  young  man  then,  and  the  folks  around  the 
house  wasn't  the  sociablest  kind  of  critters  I  ever 
see,  so  I  used  to  look  around  for  something  inter- 
esting, and  among  other  places  I  went  to  was  a 
police  court  on  the  same  road  she  lived  on,  a  little 
further  to  the  west.     There's  a  good   deal   of  hu- 


STAGE  COACHING.  173 

man  nature  to  be  seen  and  studied  in  a  police 
court.  It's  a  good  place  for  a  man  to  take  his  boy 
to,  and  let  the  youngster  judge  for  himself  whether 
the  use  of  rum  has  a  good  effect  on  the  system. 
It  done  me  more  good  them  few  days  I  was  there 
than  all  the  temperance  lectures  I  could  ever  have 
heard.  Fellows  brought  up  there  in  the  morning, 
nice,  respectable  looking  fellows,  too,  and  charged 
with  being  drunk  and  disorderly  the  night  before. 
Very  likely  brought  in  from  behind  an  ash  barrel 
or  something  of  that  sort.  The  saddest  sight  of 
all  was  the  women,  some  of  'em  real  bright  look- 
ing, likely  girls,  with  faces  as  pretty  as  angels,  but 
their  showy  clothes  and  a  good  deal  of  bogus 
jewelry  gave  a  clue  to  how  they  came  to  fall,  and 
indicated  their  bad  occupation.  One  morning  I 
remember  there  was  among  the  prisoners  a  boy — 
a  bootblack — charged  with  stealing  something  or 
other.  He  had  bright  brown  eyes,  and  a  way  of 
speaking  right  out  and  looking  you  square  in  the 
face.  I  never  believed  he  was  guilty  from  the  way 
he  argued  his  own  case  and  the  way  his  eyes  filled 
with  tears  when  he  told  the  Judge  that  he  was  an 


174  STAGE  COACHING. 

orphan  ;  he  had  been  obliged  to  commence  pretty 
low  down  in  life,  he  knew,  but  he  was  trying  to 
make  an  honest  living  and  get  some  education, 
hoping  some  time  to  be  somebody,  because  his 
mother  told  him  when  she  lay  sick  that  she  should 
watch  over  him  and  watch  his  career  in  life  from 
her  home  in  heaven.  When  he  got  to  talking  this 
way  I  just  says  to  myself,  '  That  boy  has  got  the 
sand  in  him,'  and  as  I  am  a  sinner  I  believe  he 
had.  I  had  hard  work  to  keep  from  blarting  right 
out  like  a  calf,  right  before  the  whole  kit  of  'em. 
The  Judge  looked  kinder  hazy  around  the  eye 
when  he  began  to  question  the  boy,  and  he  went 
on  and  talked  real  handsome  to  him.  He  said  he 
would  look  into  the  matter  thoroughly,  and  if  he 
found  there  was  a  mistake,  he  would  provide  for 
him  in  his  own  office.  And,  by  grief,  that  little 
chap  spoke  up  as  smart  as  a  man,  and  said  he, 
'  That  ain't  the  usual  practice  of  judges,  if  I  am 
rightly  informed,  but  I  appreciate  your  kindness 
and  shall  try  to  merit  your  esteem.  The  charge  is 
as  baseless  as  anything,  and  I  am  sure  of  the  place 
you  promise  me.'     And  he  was,  too,  for  the  day 


STAGE  COACHING.  175 

afore  I  come  away  I  dropped  into  the  Judge's  law 
office,  and  there  sot  that  boy  reading  a  calfskin 
book,  with  a  quill  pen  behind  his  ear,  and  feeling 
as  big  as  Cuffy.  And  I  heard  from  that  boy  after 
that,  and  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar.  I  always 
had  a  good  opinion  of  judges  ever  since  that  one 
there  in  New  York  acted  so  human  like,  and  I'm 
glad  to  know  that  Judge  Proudfit  is  one  of  the 
right  sort.  Them  are  the  only  two  judges  I  ever 
knew,  and  they  both  had  the  sand  in  them." 

I  was  greatly  interested  in  this  little  story, 
homely  though  it  was ;  there  was  a  quiet  earnest- 
ness about  the  speaker  which  made  every  word  of 
importance.  I  expressed  myself  much  pleased 
that  an  acquaintance  so  unpromisingly  begun 
should  have  terminated  so  well  for  the  youth,  and 
tried  to  say  something  appropriate  about  judges 
exercising  more  discretion  in  their  edicts  in  cases 
of  juvenile  misdemeanor  or  apparent  depravity, 
with  all  of  which  my  companion  agreed.  We  had 
now  reached  a  difficult  point  in  the  road,  which 
ran  up  the  mountain-side  at  an  angle,  it  seemed 
to  me,  of  about  eighty-nine  degrees,  and  for  half 


176  STAGE  COACHING. 

an  hour  neither  of  us  spoke,  but  as  the  old  gentle- 
man gave  the  animals  their  bit  as  we  came  into  a 
short  space  of  flat  country,  he  said  : 

"Somehow  a  courtroom  has  always  been  an 
attractive  spot  to  me.  I  never  get  into  Concord 
but  what  I  have  to  go  up  to  the  courthouse  and 
see  what  is  the  matter.  About  ten  years  ago  I  was 
visiting  a  sister  of  mine  who  lives  down  in  Rhode 
Island,  at  a  little  place  called  Greenville.  There 
is  nothing  there  but  mills  and  factory  people,  with 
a  farmer  now  and  then,  not  very  near  together.  I 
didn't  particularly  like  around  there,  but  the  day 
before  I  came  away  I  heard  there  was  going  to  be 
a  trial  of  a  young  man  who  had  married  a  pretty 
hard  case,  for  desertion  and  non-support.  It  was 
coming  off  before  a  country  judge,  a  hard  headed 
old  farmer,  living  about  a  mile  from  our  place.  I 
went  over  there  the  day  it  was  down  for.  It  was 
some  kind  of  a  State  holiday,  and  the  old  farm- 
house was  packed  from  the  front  room  way  back 
into  the  kitchen.  There  was  lots  of  men  and 
more  women  than  you'd  think  lived  within  a  hun- 
dred miles.     A   young   lawyer    from    Providence 


STAGE  COACHING.  177 

came  out  to  argue  the  case  for  the  woman,  and  the 
boy,  who  was  pretty  stuffy,  had  no  lawyer  and 
wouldn't  get  any.  He'd  just  as  soon  go  to  jail,  he 
said,  and  no  one  doubted  he  would  have  to  go, 
either.  There  was  great  excitement  while  the  law- 
yer was  talking,  and  the  women  whispered  and  had 
a  good  deal  to  say  among  themselves  that  wasn't 
complimentary  to  the  girl,  but  they  rather  favored 
her  as  agin  the  boy,  and  the  old  judge  was 
swallowing  every  word  that  the  oily  chap  was 
saying.  After  a  little,  three  young  fellows  with 
fishing  rods  and  tackle  came  riding  along,  and 
they  stopped  and  came  in.  They  were  city  bred, 
you  could  tell  that  easy  enough  ;  and  there  was  a 
sensation  as  they  took  their  seats  in  among  the 
women,  who  made  a  place  for  'em  mighty  quick. 
I  was  attracted  to  one  of  them  before  he  had  been 
there  long,  by  the  way  he  watched  the  lawyer,  and 
a  quick  way  he  had  of  asking  questions  of  the 
folks  sitting  near  him.  Pretty  soon  he  took  out  a 
book  and  wrote  down  a  few  words  now  and  then, 
and  when  the  other  chap  sat  down  he  jumped  up 
as  quick  as  a  cat  and  made  the  politest  bow  to  the 

12 


178  STAGE  COACHING. 

Judge,  and  smiled  on  everybody  in  the  sweetest 
way,  and  said,  that  as  the  defendant  seemed  to  be 
without  counsel,  he  would  undertake,  with  the 
consent  of  the  court  and  the  approval  of  his  col- 
league, to  defend  the  youth.  He  added  that 
though  a  stranger,  he  had  just  obtained  permission 
to  practice  in  the  Rhode  Island  courts,  and  had 
set  up  an  office  in  Providence.  He  was  allowed 
to  argue  the  case,  and  then  there  was  a  stir.  I  just 
rubbed  my  hands  together,  and  says  I,  '  Here's  a 
man  that  has  got  the  sand  in  him  !'  and  he  had. 
Why,  he  talked  more  law  and  said  more  things 
that  made  us  laugh  and  then  cry,  than  I  could  tell 
you  in  a  week.  He  spoke  of  the  woman  first,  and 
said  that  a  woman's  reputation  was  like  a  fragile 
vase — the  slightest  blow  ruined  it  forever.  And 
then  he  spoke  of  the  blessed  influence  of  a  good 
woman  on  a  man's  desiiny,  and  pictured  the  com- 
fort and  holiness  of  home  in  such  words  that  I 
shall  never  forget  it.  And  then  when  the  women 
were  all  crying  slyly,  he  pointed  out  that  in  this 
case  the  woman  was  older  than  the  husband,  and 
said  there  was  reason  to  believe  that  her  path   in 


STAGE  COACHING.  179 

life  had  not  always  been  bounded  with  rectitude 
or  truth.  Instead  of  bringing  a  pure  and  faithful 
heart  to  her  young  and  trusting  husband,  she  had 
married  him  under  false  pretenses,  taking  advan- 
tage of  his  youth  and  inexperience.  She  had  dis- 
graced his  name  and  made  him  ashamed  to  be 
longer  seen  in  public  with  her,  and  finally  he  had 
sought  to  escape  by  striking  out  a  new  path  for 
himself  and  leaving  her  to  go  her  way  in  peace — 
if  she  could.  Oh,  it  was  beautiful  !"  said  the  old 
man,  cracking  his  whip  as  we  came  upon  another 
level  space  ;  and  though  it  was  quite  dark  now,  I 
fancied  the  tears  were  beaming  in  his  eyes,  brought 
there  by  his  own  honest  enthusiasm. 

"That  young  man  talked,"  he  continued,  "for 
an  hour;  and  he  might  have  talked  for  twenty-four, 
and  no  one  would  get  tired.  Before  he  had  spoken 
fifteen  minutes  the  old  Judge  raised  his  spectacles 
up  onto  his  forehead,  and  putting  his  chin  in  his 
hands,  he  never  took  his  eyes  off  of  him  until  he 
sat  down.  And  when  he  did  sit  down  there  was  a 
stillness  all  over  that  great  house  like  that  in  a 
meeting-house  when  the  minister  spreads  out  his 


180  STAGE  COACHING. 

arms  and  says,   '  Now  may  the  grace  of  our  Lord 
and  Saviour  be  with  you  all  !'  I  could  hardly  keep 
in  my  chair  till  the  old  Judge  got  up,  and  then  I 
arose  with  him.      He  wasn't  a  man  of  many  words. 
He  very   deliberately  said  :    '  In  my  opinion  the 
indictment's  squashed.      The  court  has  adjourned. ' 
I  couldn't  hold  in  any  longer ;  I  yelled  right  out, 
'Judge,    you've   got    the  sand    in   you,    and    no 
joking  ; '  and   that  was  the  opinion  of  everybody. 
As  for  the  young  man,  why,  sir,  they'd  carried  him 
on  their  shoulders  if  he'd  let  'em,  they  were  so  glad 
he  popped  in  as  he   did.      They  cheered  him  and 
shook  hands  with  him,  and  he  laughed  and  shook 
hands   back,  and  everybody  was  as  happy  as  kit- 
tens.     I  stood  back  watching  his  handsome  face 
and  figure,  and  thinking  all  the  time  I  had  seen 
him  before,  till  he  started  to  go  out  the  door,  and 
then,  as  I  wasn't  going  to  lose  my  shake,  I  started 
after  him.      He  was  just  trotting  out  of  the  yard  as 
I  overtook  him  trying  to  catch  up  with  his  friends, 
who  had   gone  on  a  little  ahead    to    unhitch  the 
horse.      I  reached  out  my  hand  to  him,  and  told 
him  how  glad  I  was  he  called  around,  and  then  all 


STAGE  COACHING.  181 

of  a  sudden  he  gave  me  a  look,  and  I  spoke  right 
out,  and  said  I, 

"  'Young  man,  I've  seen  you  before  some- 
where's.  ' " 

' ' '  Well,  I  don't  know,'  says  he,  as  kind  and  gen- 
tlemanly as  if  I'd  been  the  Governor  of  the 
State,  '  I  am  from  New  York.  Have  you  been 
there  lately  ?'  " 

"  '  Not  in  a  good  many  years.  You  must  have 
been  a  boy  when  I  was  there,  and  a  pretty  small 
boy,  too.'" 

"  '  Well,  if  I  was  a  very  small  boy,  I  was  a  boot- 
black. Who  knows  but  I  shined  'em  up  for  you 
twenty  good  years  ago  ? '  and  he  laughed  again, 
and  said  he  was  quite  proud  to  say  that  at  an  early 
age  he  had  acquired  a  tolerable  acquaintance  with 
the  difference  between  calfskin  and  cowhide  by 
actual  experience  with  both.  I  couldn't  hardly 
catch  my  breath,  I  was  so  eager,  but  I  choked 
down  my  heart  that  was  all  the  time  trying  to 
crowd  up  into  my  mouth,  and  says  I,  '  Your  name 
a'n't  Henry  Proudfit  ?'  and  before  1  knew  it  he  said 
it    was  ;    and    then    we   shook    hands    again    and 


182  STAGE  COACHING. 

again,  and  talked  things  over  till  his  friends  got 
so  impatient  he  had  to  go,  though  he  didn't  want 
to.  Well,  well,  welly  !  he's  a  judge  now,  God 
bless  him,  and  I'm  going  to  Poughkeepsie  some 
day  and  see  him.  The  sand  in  that  man,"  he 
concluded  impressively,  "would  sink  a  ship." 

For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  we  rode  on  in  silence. 
No  comment  of  mine  could  have  added  a  touch  to 
the  symmetry  of  the  story  ;  the  wrong  word  would 
surely  have  jarred  upon  the  old  man's  mind  and 
hurt  his  feelings.  I  knew  this,  and  therefore  held 
my  peace.  But  as  we  reached  the  summit  of 
the  last  hill-top  and  saw  at  our  feet  the  brilliantly 
lighted  Profile  House,  its  great  white  surface  stand- 
ing out  against  the  inky  background  formed  by 
Moun  t  Lafayette  in  most  dazzling  relief,  I  es- 
sayed to  re-open  the  conversation  on  a  new  topic 
as  we  dashed  along,  and  observed  that  I  supposed 
there  were  a  good  many  newspaper  correspondents 
in  the  vicinity  this  season. 

"  Oh  !  yes,"  said  he,  "lots  of  'em  every  season, 
and  your  speaking  about  'em  puts  me  in  mind. 
Some  of  'em  have  got  the  sand  in  'em,  but  not 


STAGE  COACHING.  183 

many.  There  was  one  chap  up  here  two  summers 
ago,"  and  here  he  broke  out  laughing  till  his  hearty 
peals  reverberated  again  and  again  among  the 
ledges  through  which  the  road  was  cut.  "  He  was 
up  here,"  he  continued,  "two  seasons  ago.  I 
didn't  see  him  to  know  him,  but  I  believe  he  came 
over  the  mountain  from  the  Crawford  House  and 
then  rode  over  to  Littleton  with  me.  His  name  was 
Tom — Tom  Somerset — Somerby.  Tom  Somerby, 
that's  the  fellow.  Well,  I  read  a  piece  of  his  in 
the  New  York  Commercial  Advertiser  about  this 
country,  and  if  he  hasn't  got  the  longest  gaspipe  in 
himofanymanl  ever  see,  then  I  don't  know  a 
whip-socket  from  an  ear  of  green  corn." 

The  road  at  about  this  point  was  very  rocky, 
and  the  coach  made  a  hideous  noise,  so  I  could 
not  well  discover  my  identity.  Afterward  I  might 
have  done  so,  but  after  all  I  am  a  modest  man  ;  I 
don't  care  to  have  it  bruited  about  who  I  am,  when 
for  the  nonce  I  forget  my  proud  eminence  in  life  and 
am  traveling  incognito.  It  was  for  this  reason,  and 
for  no  other,  I  assure  you,  that  I  refrained  from 
pressing  my  card  on  the  old  gentleman  at  parting. 


OLD  GEORGE  WENTWORTH. 


OLD  GEORGE  WENTWORTH. 

TN  the  year  of  our  Lord  1S67  there  came  to 
work  in  the  Western  Union  Telegraph  Office  at 
No.  145  Broadway  a  thin,  prematurely  old  and  gray 
young  man  of  not  more  than  twenty-six  years.  No 
one  seemed  to  know  anything  about  him,  and  he 
soon  dropped  into  our  ranks,  and  came  and  went 
day  after  day  without  eliciting  much  interest  on 
the  part  of  those  around  him.  He  was  very  quiet, 
and  seldom  spoke  unless  addressed,  but  then  in  a 
low  and  sweetly  musical  voice.  That  he  was  intelli- 
gent and  well  educated  everybody  conceded,  but  he 
manifested  no  disposition  to  mix  with  the  general 
throng;  and  thus  it  happened  that  the  general 
throng,  without  thinking  much  about  it,  came  to 
speak  of  him  with  more  respect  than  the  appella- 
tion given  him  would  imply  as  "  Old  George 
Wentworth,"  and  to  leave  him  pretty  much  to 
himself.  He  sat  right  across  the  aisle  from  me, 
and  I  often  studied  his  sad  though  pleasant 
face,  and  ere  long  put  his  name  down  in  my  mind 


188  OLD  GEORGE  WENTWORTH. 

with  those  of  some  other  men  I  had  met,  and 
whom  I  may  briefly  describe  by  stating  that 
they  were  men  with  histories.  Yes,  I  was 
moderately  sure  that  George  Wentworth  had  a 
history,  and  I  longed  to  know  what  it  was,  and 
give  him  my  young  and  boyish  friendship  with  my 
whole  heart.  But  months  passed,  and  we  knew  no 
more  of  our  associate  then  we  did  when  he  came, 
except  that  he  was  a  magnificent  operator,  and 
that  he  was  as  sweet  as  a  day  in  June,  though  as 
sad,  as  I  have  indicated,  as  the  melancholy  and 
sighing  days  of  the  later  autumn.  His  voice  and 
manner  always  reminded  me  of  the  falling  of  the 
hectic  October  leaves,  the  surging  of  the  autumn 
wind  through  leafless  branches.  But  the  glorious 
sunbeams  were  always  resting  on  his  head,  making 
sweet  and  lovable  his  life  and  character. 

One  night  we  had  a  severe  sleet  storm,  and 
hardly  a  wire  was  left  intact  in  any  direction.  The 
full  force  had  been  ordered  on  duty  waiting  for  the 
lines  to  come  "  O.  K.,"  and  sat  about  in  little 
knots,  telling  stories  and  speculating  on  the 
chances   of  being  kept   on  duty   until  morning. 


OLD  GEORGE  WENT  WORTH.  189 

For  a  time  I  formed  one  of  a  little  company,  but 
not  being  particulary  interested  in  the  topic  of 
discussion,  and  seeing  George  Wentworth  sitting 
alone,  I  approached  him.  After  a  short  exchange 
of  commonplaces,  I  asked,  abruptly  : 

"Are  you  a  married  man,  Mr.  Wentworth?" 

The  reply  came  slowly:   "No." 

If  that  little  monosyllable  had  been  kept  on  ice 
for  a  century  it  could  not  have  been  colder.  I  saw 
that  I  had  been  imprudent,  that  I  had  awkwardly 
touched  a  chord  in  the  man's  heart  that  was  sacred. 
I  was  very  sorry,  and  being  very  young  and  inex- 
perienced in  hiding  my  emotions,  I  made  a  failure 
of  it.  The  tears  came  into  my  eyes,  my  lip 
trembled,  and  I  felt  wretched.  He  saw  the  state 
of  things  at  a  glance,  and  said,  kindly  : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Tom,  I  didn't  mean  to  be 
rude,  but  I  had  just  been  thinking  of  events  scarcely 
six  years  old,  but  such  bitter,  hopeless  memories 
that  it  seems  as  if  I  had  lived  a  thousand  years 
since  the  page  on  which  they  are  written  was 
turned  down  in  the  book  of  Fate — turned  down 
forever. " 


190  OLD  GEORGE  WENTWORTH. 

He  paused,  and  I  said  nothing.  "  I  have  never 
spoken  of  these  things,'' he  continued,  "  but  I 
think  I  was  something  like  you  at  twenty;  how 
sadly  I  have  changed  since  then  !" 

He   stopped    again,   and  then  continued  :    "I 
don't  mind  telling  you  my  story,  if  you  would  care 
to  hear  it ;"  and  as  I  eagerly  answered,  "  Do  tell 
me,"  he  resumed  :   "It   is  a   sad  story,  my  little 
friend,  it  concerns  a  woman.     Some  say  hearts  do 
not  break ;  others,  that  women's  hearts  do  some- 
times, but  that    a  man's  is  tough,  and  can   bear 
disaster  to  the  affections  without  material    injury. 
May  be  it  is  true,  generally  speaking,  but  there  are 
exceptions — the  exceptions,    I  suppose,"  he  said, 
musingly,  "that  philosophers  would  tell  you  prove 
the  rule.     You  see  me  to-day  old  and  prematurely 
gray.     I  have  never   been    a  dissipated  man.      I 
inherited  a  fine  constitution  from  my  father.     I 
have  lived  regularly  and  have  never  suffered  from 
disease,  but  I  am  as  you  see  me,  nevertheless.     Do 
you  ask  me  if  I  am  heart-broken  ?     I  cannot  say 
that,  but  I  have  mourned  over  dead   and  buried 
hopes  for  five  years,  and  God's  beautiful  world  will 


OLD  GEORGE  WENTWORTH.  191 

never  look   so  fair  and   sweet  again  to  me  as  the 
hour  when  I  close  my  eyes  upon  it  forever." 

He  moved  slightly  in  his  chair,  and  said,  as  if 
studying  on  the  matter,  "It  looks  like  a  case  of 
broken  heart,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

Then  he  was  silent  for  several  minutes,  but  when 
he  spoke  again  his  voice  had  changed  and  he  pro- 
ceeded more  cheerfully  than  I  had  ever  heard  him 
speak  before  : 

"Six  years  ago  last  August  I  was  employed  in 
an  Eastern  city.  I  worked  the  New  York  wire, 
and  one  day  while  I  was  sending,  an  office  boy 
came  up  and  said  :  '  Mr.  Wentworth,  there's  a 
lady  outside  as  wants  to  see  yer.'  I  cleared  my 
hook,  asked  New  York  to  wait  a  second,  and  went 
out  into  the  vestibule  of  the  office.  A  vision  of 
loveliness,  such  as  I  had  never  seen  until  then, 
stood  before  me.  She  was  an  entire  stranger  to  me, 
but  we  were  soon  chatting  gaily,  nevertheless,  for 
she  had  said  in  the  meantime  :  '  I  am  Helen  Banks, 
from  Saybrook,  and,  as  I  was  passing  through 
here,  on  my  way  to  Rockville,  where  I  am  to  take 
the  office,  I  thought  it  not  improper  that  I  should 


192  OLD  GEORGE  WENTWORTH. 

call  and  renew,  in  propria  persona,  the  acquaint- 
ance we  had  formed  by  wire.' 

"I  have  burdened  you  by  inference  with  one 
exploded  theory,  so  don't  mind  another,"  he  con- 
tinued ;  "  I  fell  in  love  at  first  sight.  She  was  a 
lovely  creature,  small  of  stature,  bright,  intelligent, 
modest,  enchanting,  and  she  appeared  to  me  as 
suddenly  and  unexpectedly  as  Diana  appeared  to 
Endymion.  How  readily  I  accepted  Endymion's 
role,  and  with  what  alacrity  I  awoke  from  my 
sleep  of  every-day  life  to  a  new  life  of  love  and 
bliss,  I  need  not  tell  you.  She  stayed  only  a  few 
minutes,  and  at  parting  she  said  gaily  : 

"'I  expect  to  be  intensely  lonesome  down  at 
Rockville,  and  that  my  only  recreation  will  be 
that  derived  from  listening  to  the  birds  and  to  your 
musical  sending.  Think  of  me  sometimes,  and 
when  the  wire  is  idle  say  a  word  to  poor  me,  won't 
you  ? '  she  went  on,  half  jocosely,  half  in  earnest. 
'  And,'  she  concluded,  '  when  you  are  too  busy  to 
bid  a  body  good  day,  please  imagine  that 

Pretty  and  pale  and  tired 

She  sits,  in  her  stiff-backed  chair, 

While  the  blazing  summer  sun 
Shines  on  her  soft  brown  hair, ' 


OLD  GEORGE  WE  NT  WORTH.  193 

and   all  the  rest  of  it.     Good-by!'   and   she  was 
gone. 

"  How  dark  and  dismal  the  old  office  looked  as 
I  resumed  my  duties.  The  sunbeams  which  in 
my  imagination  nestled  in  her  hair  and  played 
around  the  dimples  in  her  cheeks,  lending  a  new 
and  genial  luster  to  the  office,  and  blessing  every 
nook  and  corner  in  the  dim  old  room  like  a  visible 
benediction,  went  out  with  her.  I  was  very 
thoughtful  and  preoccupied  that  afternoon,  and 
felt  that  I  could  afford  to  smile  at  my  companions 
who  sought  to  tease  me  by  asking  if  that  was  the 
young  lady  who  inquired  over  the  wire  so  often  if 
Mr.  Wentworth  was  in.  Well,  time  passed  on, 
and  what  with  chatting  on  the  wire,  and  corre- 
sponding by  mail,  we  finally  reached  the  period 
in  our  acquaintance  when  I  dared  to  offer  myself 
in  marriage.  A  letter  was  the  medium  of  my  pro- 
posal— I  had  not  courage  to  make  a  personal 
appeal." 

He  paused  and  drummed  on  the  desk  with  his 
fingers  for  a  little  time  and  then  said  : 

"1  waited  patiently  three  days  for  an  answer, 


1  3 


194  OLD  GEORGE  WENTWORTH. 

but  none  came.  Then  I  waited  a  week,  a  month, 
and  then  she  resigned  and  went  home.  I  dared 
not  make  any  inquiry  of  her  meantime,  though  I 
did  write  confidentially  to  the  postmaster  at  Rock- 
ville,  and  learned  that  he  had  himself  delivered 
the  letter  into  her  hands.  I  saw  how  it  was,  she 
could  not  accept  me  and  was  too  kind  to  tell  me 
so.  I  went  into  the  army  when  the  war  broke  out, 
but  returned  home  on  a  furlough  in  1863.  I 
learned  that  Helen  had  married  her  cousin  a  few 
months  before  and  had  removed  to  Iowa.  I  was 
resolved  to  make  the  best  of  it  and  be  a  man. 
You  see  how  well  I  have  succeeded,"  he  said, 
smiling  sadly.  "  Just  before  my  furlough  was  out 
I  took  up  a  copy  of  a  morning  paper  published  in 
the  city  where  I  had  been  formerly  employed  and 
started  on  seeing  my  own  name. 

"At  first  I  thought  I  had  been  accidentally  in- 
cluded in  a  list  of  killed  and  wounded.  I  hastily 
turned  the  paper  to  read  the  heading,  and  my 
heart  sank  within  me.  Through  hot,  blinding 
tears,  which  I  could  not  stay,  I  read  the  sad,  sad 
story  that  made  me  what  I  am.     A  post-office  clerk 


OLD  GEORGE  WENTWORTH.  195 

had  been  arrested  for  robbing  the  mail  ;  in  his 
room  were  found  unendorsed,  and  therefore  use- 
less checks,  'and  among  other  things,'  the  account 
said  :  '  Personal  letters  to  the  following  named  ad- 
dresses.' Then  followed  a  list  of  a  hundred  or  more 
names,  among  which  was  mine.  I  took  the  first 
train  to  ,  and  applying  at  police  headquar- 
ters, obtained  my  letter.  It  was  as  I  had  feared  ;  it 
was  her  letter  accepting  me  as  her  husband.  I 
crushed  it  in  my  hands,  and  crying  :  '  O  God, 
too  late,  too  late  !  '  fell  swooning  on  the  floor. 
A  few  weeks  later  I  went  back  to  my  post  in  the 
army.  My  comrades  said  I  was  the  bravest  man 
they  had  ever  seen.  I  rushed  into  the  thickest  of 
the  fight,  and  feared  nothing.  I  courted  an  hon- 
orable death  ;  but  bullets  whistled  by  me,  shells 
burst  by  my  side,  killing  men  by  dozens.  The 
fever  broke  out  in  our  regiment  and  fifty  men  died 
in  one  week,  but  I  lived  on.  Promotion  followed 
promotion,  and  at  last,  to  please  my  mother,  I 
resigned  my  commission,  stayed  at  home  a  month, 
and  finally  promised  to  keep  out  of  the  army  on 
condition  that  I  should   resume  work   at  my  old 


196  OLD  GEORGE  WENTWORTH. 

business  wherever  I  could  find  it.  Since  then  I 
have  been  in  Canada,  and  finally  drifted  to  New 
York  to  be  nearer  home.  Now,  Tom,  let  me  tell 
you  here  that —  " 

"Mr.  Wentworth,  we  have  got  one  wire  up  to 
Washington  ;  answer  him  for  a  Sun  special,  please," 
called  out  Night  Manager  Marks  from  the  switch, 
and  the  story  was  ended. 

The  thread  thus  broken  was  never  taken  up 
again,  and  by  some  indefinable  understanding 
between  us,  I  guarded  Wentworth's  secret  as 
jealously  as  if  it  were  I  who  had  loved  and  lost, 
and  henceforward  neither  of  us  mentioned  it. 

I  left  New  York  soon  after  this,  and  never  saw 
George  Wentworth  again  until  I  stood  one  August 
day  two  years  later  in  a  small  Connecticut  town, 
and  looked  down  upon  all  that  was  mortal  of  him 
as  he  lay  in  his  coffin.  His  sweet  face  was  as 
natural  as  in  life,  and  scarcely  any  paler.  His 
mother  stood  by  and  reverently  kissed  his  brow 
again  and  again,  while  the  sturdy  frame  of  his 
grand  old  father  trembled  like  a  reed  shaken  in 
the  wind  as  he  gazed  fondly   and    tearfully    upon 


OLD  GEORGE  WENTWORTH.  197 

the  dead.  There  were  not  many  particulars  of  his 
death  to  be  obtained.  It  was  obvious  that  no  one 
excepting  the  old  pastor  knew  of  his  love  and  the 
suffering  he  had  undergone. 

"  He  came  home,"  said  his  mother,  "about  a 
month  ago,  looking  no  worse  than  usual,  but  he 
shortly  began  to  fail  perceptibly  day  by  day.  The 
doctor  came  and  prescribed  a  change  of  air,  but 
George  said  he  would  be  better  soon,  and  begged 
to  remain  quietly  where  he  was.  One  afternoon 
he  walked  out  under  the  elms  and  laid  down  in 
the  hammock.  At  six  o'clock  I  went  out  and 
asked  him  to  return  to  the  house.  He  said  :  '  Not 
yet,  mother.  It  is  delightful  here,  the  breeze 
refreshes  me,  and  I  feel  perfectly  easy  and  content. 
I  will  remain  where  I  am — thank  you — -and  watch 
the  sun  go  down.'  When  the  sun  had  set  I  went 
out  again,  but,"  she  added,  in  a  breaking,  though 
sweetly  musical  voice,  like  George's,  "my  boy 
had  gone  to  rest  with  the  sun,  whose  downward 
course  he  watched.'' 

The  minister  came  and  preached  the  customary 
sermon,  ranking  the  dead  man  with 


198  OLD  GEORGE  WENT  WORTH. 

"  Men   whose  lives    glide   on    like  rivers  that  water   the 

woodlands, 
Darkened  by  shadows  of  earth,  but  reflecting  an  image  of 

heaven;  " 

the  modest  cortege  moved  away,  and  George 
Wentworth  was  laid  to  rest  in  a  solitary  grave  be- 
neath the  murmuring  pines  on  a  neighboring  hill- 
side. This  was  done  at  his  request,  made  to  the 
old  preacher,  whom  he  also  acquainted  with  his 
story  when  he  felt  that  the  end  was  near.  Not 
being  a  relative,  I  did  not  go  to  the  grave,  and  as 
I  prepared  to  leave  the  house  I  met  a  sweet,  sad 
faced  woman,  whom  I  had  noticed  approach  and 
gaze  long  and  tenderly  upon  the  form  of  my  de- 
parted friend,  and  then  retire  to  a  remote  corner 
of  the  room  weeping  painfully.  Some  one  said 
she  was  a  stranger,  others  that  she  was  some 
woman  living  in  the  village,  and  still  others  said 
that  she  was  a  relative.  But  I  knew  she  was  not 
the  latter,  else  she  would  have  been  provided  with 
a  carriage.  We  left  the  house  together,  and  as  we 
walked  down  the  neat  gravel  path,  I  said: 

"This    is  a  very   pretty  village.      Do  you  live 
here  ? " 


OLD  GEORGE  WENTWORTH.  199 

"No,  sir,"  she  replied,  "I  live  many,  many 
miles  from  here.  Mr.  Wentworth  was  an  old 
friend  of  mine,  and  my  husband  insisted  that 
I  should  come  to  his  funeral." 

"You  live  in  Iowa,  perhaps,"  said  I  gently. 
Our  eyes  met  for  a  moment,  and  we  understood 
each  other. 

"  You  are  married,  I  believe — happily  so,  I 
trust,"  I  ventured,  after  a  moment. 

"  My  husband  is  very  kind,"  she  replied.  "  I 
am  quite  content,  thank  you.  We  have  two  chil- 
dren. " 

"  I  suppose  you  know  the  whole  story,"  I  add- 
ed, after  a  pause,  "the  stolen  letter,  his  suffering 
and  his  unaltered  love." 

"Yes,  sir,  I  know  it  all  now,  Mr.  Somerby,"she 
said,  weeping.  "  The  good  parson  who  preached 
the  funeral  sermon  to-day  wrote  me  the  sad  story 
a  few  weeks  ago.  It  was  he,  too,  who  telegraphed 
George's  death,  and  influenced  his  parents,  without 
disclosing  his  motive,  to  defer  the  funeral  until 
now.  I  arrived  only  at  noon  to-day.  Oh  !  sir," 
she  continued,  "  I  try  to  think  it  is  all  for  the  best. 


200  OLD  GEORGE  WENTWORTH. 

I  pray  to  Heaven  to  help  me  to  be  true  and  good 
to  my  kind  and  affectionate  husband,  and  to  make 
me  worthy  of  my  pure  and  guileless  little  ones  ; 
but  I  sometimes  fear  that  I  have  only  a  shattered 
heart  left  to  love  them  with." 

We  shook  hands  and  separated,  probably  forever. 
I  went  back  to  my  telegraphing,  and  she  back  to 
Iowa,  her  husband  and  little  ones,  and  her  great 
sorrow.  And  that  ends  the  story,  unless  I  add  an 
odd  fancy  of  my  own. 

Sometimes  when  the  house  is  hushed  and  mid- 
night draws  near,  I  sit  and  smoke  and  dream. 
Watching  the  clouds  as  they  curl  upward  from  my 
cigar,  or  peering  through  the  smoke  rings  I  blow 
forth,  I  see  hopes  and  joys  that  have  passed 
me  by,  which,  as  they  vanish  in  the  haze,  leave 
my  cheeks  wet.  And  as  I  sit  and  muse  anon, 
my  mind  flits  back  to  a  quiet  rustic  village, 
and  I  hear  the  winds  softly  sighing  through  the 
pines  above  a  solitary  grave  on  a  hill-side. 
Looking  west,  I  see  a  sweet,  sad-faced  matron 
sitting  beneath  a  cottage  portico,  and  happy, 
gleeful   children  are   about   her.     Then    I    listen 


OLD  GEORGE  WENTWORTH.  201 

to    the    pines    again,    and    I    fancy    I    hear    them 
whisper, 

"  Pretty  and  pale  and  tired 

She  sits  in  her  stiff  backed  chair, 
While  the  blazing  summer  sun 
Shines  on  her  soft  brown  hair;  " 

and  as  I  turn  once  more  I  see  her  yet  again — wait- 
ing, waiting,  waiting. 


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